Chapter 9 #2
"Yeah. All of it."
Her lips twist. "Blue, you don't need to do that. He already asked about you. He's already missing you."
The words land like a slap I didn't see coming. My heart stutters, then slams forward so hard I sway. "He asked about me? When?"
"The other day, when he needed to talk to Mikhail. Then he texted me out of nowhere this morning asking again, 'How is she?'"
My ears ring and the room tilts. "He asked," I repeat, tasting the syllables like they're sugar.
"Yeah." Demi's expression turns wicked. "He asked."
A laugh bubbles up, high, jagged, almost hysterical. I press both hands to my mouth, but it keeps coming. Tears burn the corners of my eyes. Relief and triumph and something wicked twist together in my chest until I can't breathe around them. I choke out, "He's breaking. He's already breaking."
Demi carefully states, "I think he wants to make sure you're not bleeding out somewhere, too."
"No." I shake my head so hard that strands of my hair whip my cheeks. "No. He wouldn't text you unless it hurt him to not know. He's thinking about me. Right now. He's picturing me and wondering if I'm okay. If I'm with someone else. If I'm—" My voice cracks. "If I'm still his."
She doesn't contradict me. She sighs and steps closer, murmuring, "You're glowing right now. It's like someone flipped a switch."
I am. The high races through my veins, bright and electric, chasing away the fog that's lived in my head for days.
My skin prickles. My nipples tighten, and between my legs, I'm still slick, still sensitive, and the thought that Red is out there somewhere feeling even a fraction of this ache sends another pulse of heat through me. I blurt out, "I need to go out."
Demi raises a brow. "Tonight?"
"Tomorrow night. The Violet Hour. Girls' night. Public. Visible."
"Visible?"
"Yes!" I grab her wrist. "You're coming. We're going to make sure every tagged story in Chicago sees me. I'll invite Cloud, too!"
She studies me for a long beat, then she nods. "Okay. But first, you're showering and eating something that isn't cold Chinese. And sleeping."
"Okay."
"I mean actual sleep, Blue. And I'm staying here tonight."
I open my mouth to argue.
Her voice turns firmer. "No negotiation. You want to burn the city down tomorrow, fine. But you do it on a full tank, not running on fumes."
I want to fight her. I want to scream that I don't need sleep, that I need momentum, and to keep moving before the high crashes. But her hand is already on my elbow, steering me toward the bathroom, and some small, exhausted part of me lets her.
She starts the shower, and I get in. I stand under the hot water until my skin turns pink, and the last traces of my earlier desperation swirl down the drain.
When I turn off the faucet, Demi wraps me in a towel, dries my hair with another, and doesn't comment on the fresh bruises blooming along my collarbone or the way my hands still tremble.
She makes me scrambled eggs and toast. I eat sitting on the counter while she leans against the fridge, arms crossed, watching me as if I might bolt.
Then she quietly asks, "What were you doing in your closet?"
I freeze with the fork halfway to my mouth.
"You can tell me. I won't judge," she promises.
I set down my fork and slide my phone to her. "Look at the Instagram stories."
She picks up the phone, swipes through them, and puts it down. She arches her eyebrows. "Well, that's one way to get his attention."
I insist, "He needed to see me."
"That's not smart, Blue."
"It's a private account," I point out.
She exhales through her nose. "Mikhail's watching. Red's in trouble up to his eyeballs because of what happened. You keep pushing like this, and they're going to find out before it's safe."
My voice is steady. "Let them. I don't need to hide." I put the final mouthful of eggs in my mouth and chew.
She picks up my empty plate, sets it in the sink, and warns, "Have you figured out how to tell your father about Red without getting him killed?"
I stay quiet.
She warns, "Until you do, you need to be smart."
"It's a private account," I remind her.
"And Mikhail is probably tracking all of Red's accounts," she points out.
I groan and put my arms on the counter, then bury my face in them. "Why does our family always have to ruin everything for us?"
She softly replies, "Sorry, babe. It is what it is. We'll figure it out, but until we do, you need to be smarter."
I shake my head inside my arms.
"Come on. Let's get you in bed so you can get some sleep."
I begrudgingly rise and follow her into the bedroom. I crawl under the covers, still wearing Red's shirt.
Demi slides in beside me, fully clothed, and tucks herself against my back like a shield. Her arm drapes over my waist. Her breath warms the nape of my neck. She orders, "Sleep."
"I can't."
"You will."
She's right. Exhaustion hits like a drug. My eyelids droop. The last thing I register is her fingers threading through mine, squeezing once, and then darkness pulls me under.
When I wake, it's late afternoon. Sunlight slices through the blinds in gold bars across the bed. Demi's gone, but there's a note on the pillow.
Babe,
There's a quiche in the fridge. I picked your outfit for tonight, stole your phone, and called Cloud to invite her. I told her we're out to make Red jealous but didn't tell her the details. She's awesome. I'll pick her up on the way to your place tonight.
Eat and drink some water. We'll paint the town so bright tonight our men are going to cum in their pants when they see our pics.
Love ya!
D
P.S. Red lipstain is a MUST!
Ilaugh and smile so hard, it hurts my cheeks. Then I roll out of bed, go into the kitchen, and heat the quiche. I eat it all, then go into the closet.
Demi must have put the tripod, light ring, and clothes rack in my other room. A black leather miniskirt that barely covers my ass, a sheer crimson top with long sleeves and a plunging neckline hang on the door hook. Strappy stilettos that make my legs look endless sit on the floor next to the door.
Gotta love Demi!
I stand in front of the mirror and study myself. The swelling around my eyes has gone down. My lips look bitten, not bruised. My hair is a tangled halo of blue and red. I look alive but not wild like when I was taking the footage.
I go out, grab my phone, and check the private account. I click the view button on my story, and my adrenaline spikes.
Red saw them. Every story. Every flash. Every whispered taunt.
The 1H warning at the top of my stories sends another gleeful shot through me.
He's going to hate it when they disappear!
Tonight I'll give him more.
Demi's warning flies through my head and quickly disappears.
The risk is worth it.
I'll figure out how to tell my father.
The next few hours, I watch TV in bed, keeping Red's shirt balled up and near my nose, inhaling the fading scent. When it's time to get ready, I paint my lips red, put on the outfit Demi picked out, and line my eyes until they look like weapons.
I spritz my favorite perfume between my breasts, documenting it on video, then upload it to my stories.
I step into the living room, and Demi walks through my front door, dressed in gold sequins that catch the light like knives with Cloud by her side, wearing a purple minidress meant to kill and hot-pink hair.
Demi whistles low. "Jesus. He's going to combust."
Cloud affirms, "That is lethal!"
I sing, "That's the plan." Then I add, "I love your hair!"
"Thanks!" Cloud beams.
Demi holds her phone in the air. "Ready?"
We step next to her, and she snaps a photo. Then she uploads it and says, "Don't worry. I already friended Red on my account." She winks.
We laugh then leave my apartment. In the elevator, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall, approving of my bright eyes, curved mouth, and body humming with anticipation.
Red's going to see exactly what he's missing.
When the stories start rolling in tonight, when every tagged photo shows me laughing, dancing, and untouchable, he won't just wonder.
He'll ache.