Chapter 7 Bella
Bella
As far as I was concerned, there were three things that could make even the shittiest day ten times better—a warm and fluffy blanket straight out of the dryer, a plate of biscuits and gravy, specifically from the diner just outside of town, which, in my opinion, had perfected the gravy to biscuits ratio, and a long, grueling pole workout.
Pole wasn’t chaos; it was structure. Sequences I could learn and repeat, progress I could track, sensations that made sense.
Plus, it came with one hell of a playlist.
I wiped the sweat from my face and clicked forward to the next song, smiling when Banks and Doechii blared through my Bluetooth speaker. The bass settled into my bones almost immediately.
I stepped up to the pole and started with a simple fireman spin, gripping high and letting my body circle the cool metal once, twice, thighs slapping softly as I swung around each time.
From there, I climbed.
I was suddenly grateful that Nessa and Dani had convinced me to invest in a slightly more expensive, but wholly more supportive sports bra during our last shopping trip. This thing was worth its weight in gold, holding my breasts tight and secure as I pulled myself up the pole.
God, that burned . . . in the best way possible.
The full-length mirror across the room caught it all—taut, dimpled legs, soft curves, sweat-slicked skin flushed with effort.
It made me feel sexy. Beautiful.
And not because anyone was watching, but rather because I was strong. Focused. Because my body was doing exactly what I asked of it. It had taken me years to appreciate my body for what it was—powerful. And pole dancing had a lot to do with that.
Unlike the rest of the world, which generally didn’t take kindly to women taking up space—physically or emotionally—pole encouraged it. Rewarded it, even. The extra weight gave me the momentum I needed to complete every move.
I shifted my weight into a pole sit, pausing just long enough to feel it. From there, I slid down slowly, engaging every muscle to control the descent before letting gravity do the rest.
I moved into a chair spin next, tightening my core.
This was my favorite part—the precision.
Toes pointed, grip adjusted down to the millimeter, exact timing.
There was no room for self-consciousness or spiraling thoughts, not when you were spinning on a metal pole four feet off the floor.
It was the kind of concentration that my brain could perfectly digest.
I had just lowered myself to the base for a body roll when the overhead lights flickered.
And then again.
The third time, everything went dark.
“Seriously?”
Mother Nature had the shittiest timing. I couldn’t help but feel irrationally offended on behalf of my playlist.
I shook off the thought and shoved my feet into the sandals beside the door. Nessa should be home from work by now, and assuming she and Jared had lost power too, we could at least commiserate together.
Or swap candles. Or both.
I stepped outside, pulled the door shut behind me out of habit, and felt my stomach drop instantly.
“No, no, no.”
The handle didn’t turn. I jiggled it once, and then again, harder.
Nothing.
A sudden image of my brother bothering me to schedule an appointment with a locksmith to have it fixed flashed through my brain. He must’ve reminded me at least a dozen times.
I rested my forehead against the door and groaned. “Fucking idiot,” I ground out through gritted teeth. Thunder cracked overhead, loud and close, like a cruel joke.
I was seconds away from assessing whether to break a window or scale the drainpipe when the sound of feet pounding on pavement broke through the storm.
I turned and froze when I saw Bennett bounding up the shared driveway, heading in my direction.
He was wet.
That makes two of us.
Not just a little damp either but fully soaked. His shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, darkened with water, fabric plastered to his skin. Droplets slid down his forearms and dripped off his fingertips, pooling on the concrete between us.
His hair was wild, curls escaping in every direction, rain still clinging to lashes that most women paid good money for.
“Oh,” I said stupidly. “Hi.”
For half a second, we just stared at each other.
Then his gaze dropped.
And stayed there.
I saw the exact moment it hit him—the sports bra, the leggings, the toes I’d painted that morning in my new favorite shade of blue: Mi Casa Es Blue Casa.
Heat flickered across his face, quick and unguarded.
And then, just as quickly, his expression shifted. Concern replaced whatever else had been there so fast it almost startled me.
He opened his mouth to say something, then he paused. He tapped just behind his ear and shook his head once. He didn’t have his speech processor connected.
“Oh.” I nodded then lifted my hands automatically. You okay?
His eyebrows shot up. You know ASL?
I took a class in high school, I replied. And then again in college. Fell in love with the language.
His surprise melted into something warmer, more attentive.
Rain drummed down harder, forcing us closer under the overhang of the porch light that wasn’t working.
Why are you outside in a storm? He swallowed before adding, Dressed like that?
I accidentally locked myself out. I bit my lip and gestured weakly behind me. And I was working out when the power went out.
His eyes flicked quickly over my body again.
What kind of workout?
I bit my lip, then signed it anyway. Pole.
His hands froze mid-sign. He looked up at the dark sky like he was asking it for strength.
Pole, he repeated, just to be sure.
I shrugged. Less clothing means more friction with the metal.
He nodded fast. Right. Totally.
Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating his flustered face. He exhaled, sharp and very much out loud.
“Fuck.”
The word slipped out of him low and rough, like it hadn’t gone through any internal filter at all.
I doubted he even realized he’d said it.
Without his processor, his voice sounded different. Softer around the edges, but deeper too, like it came straight from his chest instead of being shaped for anyone else’s ears.
I felt it settle deep in my stomach as the thunder rolled again.
Come on, he gestured. You can hang out with me until the power’s back on.
Are you sure? I asked.
I’m not leaving you out here.
He stepped closer, angling his body just slightly between me and the street. The movement was so instinctive, protective without being dramatic, that my breath caught before I could stop it.
Good thing he couldn’t hear it.
He bent down, lifting one foot to tug a key out of his sock, because apparently that was a thing.
Wow, I said, gesturing between his hand and foot. That’s efficient. And maybe a little gross.
He grinned, rainwater dripping off his nose. Runners’ trick.
He ushered me in ahead of him. I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly aware of the chill creeping in now that the adrenaline was fading.
Bennett noticed immediately.
You’re cold, he said, concern etched between his brows. I’ll grab you something dry to wear.
I can grab something from Nessa and Jared’s room.
He blinked once, twice. And then signed, No.
The single sign was sharp, decisive, leaving no room for argument. His jaw tightened just enough that I noticed, a muscle ticking under the stubble shadowed by the dim emergency lantern he’d flicked on in the entryway.
With that, he turned on his heel and headed up the stairs.
It only took him a minute or two to swap out his wet workout clothes for a dry long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants that left little to the imagination.
There was nothing little about Bennett King.
He held out his hand, offering me a folded charcoal-gray hoodie without ceremony. His eyes stayed locked on mine the entire time, steady and unyielding, like he was daring me to argue.
I reached for it, fingers brushing his as I took it.
Thank you, I signed, clutching it to my chest. But really, I can borrow something from Nessa—
No, he repeated.
He stepped closer, close enough that I had to tip my head back to keep eye contact.
His hand lifted, hovering for a second before he gently tugged the sweatshirt from my grip, unfolded it, and held it up between us, like he was going to help me into it himself if I didn’t move.
The message was clear—his clothes, his house, his rules.
My pulse kicked hard against my ribs. I nodded and slipped past him into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind me.
I peeled everything off quickly, leaving only my panties. That was nonnegotiable. There was no way I was sitting bare-assed on any of my brother’s furniture.
Thankfully, Bennett’s sweatshirt covered all the essentials, the hem brushing just beyond mid-thigh. I relished the way it swallowed me whole, and I couldn’t help but wish he would do the same.
When I stepped back into the hallway, Bennett was waiting, leaning against the wall with a towel in his hands. His gaze dropped immediately, taking in the way the sweatshirt hung off my curves, the way it covered everything and somehow made me feel more exposed than before.
Something dark and appreciative flashed across his face before he caught himself and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
He held out the towel. “For your hair,” he said.
The sound of his voice startled me for half a second. Then, I noticed the familiar outline behind his ear, the processor back in place.
“Thanks.” I took the towel, smiling softly. “Oh, and the sweatshirt, too. Thank you.”
His eyes returned to mine. “No problem. It looks better on you anyway.”
He didn’t smile, didn’t soften it with humor—just watched me, steady and intense, like he’d meant every word. I clutched the towel like a lifeline, twisting it around my damp hair while his gaze held mine a beat too long.
“Um, thanks,” I finally said.
He nodded once, like that was enough, then gestured toward the couch. “Want to sit?”
“Yeah, that’d be good.”