Page 13 of Unlocked Dive
I’m awake a few hours later, my heart pounding to the faint throb in my head, the sheets gone clammy with the half-remembered panic of another nightmare.
The house is dark and spectrally silent. Even in our gated community at home, the night is always full of small sounds. The frantic bark of some neighbor’s 50K guard dog warning off a coon, the far-off wail of LA’s ever-present sirens, the hushed growl of the security trucks making their midnight rounds. Apparently, NorCal doesn’t even have crickets at 4 a.m. in April.
The sky here, on the other hand, is a vast orchestra of stars. The silver light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows thatmake up the south wall of the living room as I stumble out in search of a glass of water. More than enough illumination to see the rope’s black silhouette hanging like a harbinger in the center of the room.
Today.
I’m out of time.
I should have let my parents into the studio to see the wreck I’ve become. That’s what normal rich kids do, right? Let their parents bury their flaws under a shield of money and scotch-scented phone calls.Give him a little more time. We’re handling things on our end. How many zeros on the check?
Just because I’ve never needed their protection before doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have given it. How many times did my dad bail Gabe out of some near-humiliation?
I am not like Gabe.
“Are you scared, little brother?”
My hand flinches back from the rope, and I stumble over the lip of the mat.
Am I still dreaming?
I suck in a breath and shove my hand into my pocket, where I curl each finger into my palm to a slow count of ten. I press my nails into the skin, digging for a pain I can point to, an excuse I can name. Too bad my calluses run even deeper than my scars.
I tiptoe up the stairs to the kitchen, lingering on the landing that leads to Byrd’s bedroom. Three steps up, and I could open his door, cross the carpet, and crawl into his bed. Maybe he’d fuck me.
Idiot.
Most likely he’d toss me out, pissed—or worse, horrified. Either way, he’d be done, and I’d be back home. Safe. Alone.
Don’t forget damaged andhorny.
I remember him surreptitiously checking me out in the car, and the hitch of his breath when I cornered him outside the kitchen door. I can see his forearms flex in the glow of the refrigerator light and the shape of his lips closing over his finger. I still want to know if his hair feels as sinful as it looks.
I still want to be whole again.
Fuck it.
I climb the rest of the stairs and steal my glass of water from the tap. By the faint light of the abalone nightlight he left glowing above the counter, I stare at my name in his calendar and think about August. I notice a tiny circle around the date, and I realize the whole month going back is the same. He must mark off the days every night before he goes to bed. It’s such a strange, old-fashioned quirk, like something out of a Hallmark movie. Or an after-school special about the football star who fucks up his knee and makes a miraculous recovery just in time for the big game. Like it should be a lesson instead of a time bomb.
I take the Sharpie and turn the small circle into a cartoon cock and balls.
Then I slink back to bed, going over everything I brought in my duffel to plan the most devastatingly sexy morning-workout outfit I can muster.
After a brief fantasy involving turquoise booty shorts and body glitter, I settle on a white wife-beater and pale-blue joggers that hug my ass. Simple and classic, and I’ve reaped the benefits of the look at the gym more times than I can count. Maybe I can distract him into ignoring the way my hands tremble when I reach for the rope.
In the watery daylight, the black canvas sheath that covers the braided core is faded with use and rosin to a well-loved gray, only the very top and the tail curling on the mat still dark with the original dye.
Byrd watches from the couch, sleeves shoved up above his elbows where they rest on his knees, and I’m forced to admit I’m way more distracted by his thighs in sweatpants than he seems to be by mine.
“Just run me through your usual warm-up,” he says, offering an encouraging smile.
Right.
I want to show off. I want to surprise him. I want my acrobatic prowess to make his dick hard.
I do three basic climbs.
Tuck-ups. Straddle-ups. Single-coil wheel ups all the way to the top. At least those last ones are impressive. I cut the beat sequence short when the hardware starts to wobble at the point and my breath tightens in my chest. For a second, I hang there, letting the momentum ooze out of my body. When the rope settles, I force myself to invert, hooking my left knee so I can peel my clinging fingers free.
