Chapter 11
VAL
Roman
I’m sorry
I take a slow drag of my cigarette and exhale, leaning against the brick wall at my back and looking up at the city looming above me.
The alley behind the Mercury Theater is a bit of a transitional zone where we—the dancers—step out of the real world and pause for a moment to discard outside things like overdue rent, relationship issues, self-doubt, family shit, or whatever.
It's a place to shed who we are off stage and become who we are on it.
I’m not a religious person, never will be. But I dunno. To me, this alley is hallowed ground. A sacred space.
You can still hear the traffic of Madison Avenue and East 49th Street and the general background din of the city throbbing like a concrete heartbeat around you. But it’s still a place of peace for me.
I’m early this morning, which is good. I need a little longer here today. I frown, slowly dragging on the cigarette again as my eyes skim over Roman’s obviously sloppy-drunk DMs from five nights ago.
I’ve already read them.
Several, several times.
I’ve even been tempted to respond.
But fuck him. Not in the fun way. In the “fire him out of a goddamn cannon, directly away from me,” way.
My lips purse as I take another drag, trying to clear my head of any thoughts concerning Crown Prince Dickhead himself.
Seriously, fuck him. I cannot and will not deal with his hot-and-cold, will-he-or-won’t-he, “I’m not gay” bullshit.
No fucking interest.
Nope.
None.
I close my eyes as porn-level replays of the other day in the steam room come rushing back—and not for the first time, either.
They’ve been the feature attraction of my nights recently when I've been stroking myself, remembering every detail of that man shaking and quivering and moaning into my mouth.
The feel of his muscles clenching and twitching. The sound of his breath catching. Those sexy moans—fuck me, those moans.
It hit me the other night just what it is about Roman that fucks with me so much. Turns me on so fucking much.
It’s the dichotomy. The way the whole world sees him as this strong, brutal, tough motherfucker…which I'm sure he is…except when he’s with me.
Specifically, when I’ve got him in a position of submission—pinned to the ground, or to a wall. My breath on his neck and my teeth feasting on his ear lobe as his cock twitches against mine.
That’s what does it for me: he’s this beast to the world, but a mewling little kitten when I’ve got his cock in my hand.
And that fucking cock.
Personally, I’m a huge fan of my own. It’s my favorite dick in the world, and I feel like I’m qualified to make that call after seeing a pretty fucking healthy collection of them. But Roman’s is quickly climbing the charts and might be a solid second place already.
And you haven’t even fucked him yet…
I scowl and take a heavy pull on the cigarette.
Yeah, you won’t, either.
I’ve decided: this is done. Hence me not responding to his drunk-ass DMs.
I mean, look, I get it. I understand that reconciling who you think you are and who you actually are isn’t easy, especially when society still tells you that one of those things is “normal” and the other is not.
Nobody fucking chooses to be in the minority of anything, to be banished to the fringe wastelands of “normal-town” where you used to live.
Again, I fucking understand. It’s not like someone gave me a first-class ticket to the coming-out express. I had to fucking fight for it. I bled for it.
But sometimes, that’s what it takes to be free to be you.
Regardless, this isn’t my fucking fight at all. It’s his—or not, if he decides to stay in that fucking closet he’s made so delightfully comfy and cozy for himself.
Not my problem. Not my issue. Not my concern.
Not my fight.
What I need is a distraction…ideally, a carnal one…so I can fuck Roman out of my head.
I frown, already knowing it's a bad idea as I text Chrissy, one of my usual go-to fuck buddies. Chrissy is basically always DTF, enjoys sex almost as much as I do, and has a very fun clit piercing.
When she doesn’t immediately respond—yes, I know it’s eight in the fucking morning, but still—I send the same message to Gerard, another of my regular booty calls.
Gerard is fun because of his lack of a gag reflex. Also, though he's bi, he’s super femme and can take a fucking pounding.
I exhale slowly, chewing on my bottom lip.
The problem is, even though both these people have been very fun to play with in the past, and are both supremely excellent candidates for milking Roman out of my system via my dick, and even though I literally just texted them asking if they want to hook up later…
I’m not actually interested. To the point that if they text me back, I’m not sure I'll respond.
Fuck.
I was hoping that texting them would erase the Roman situation from my head. But the second I message them, it’s like there’s a little figure on my shoulder, shaking its head and scowling.
An image of Brooklyn as a stern, disappointed fairy, tut-tutting me and waving her wand angrily, pops into my head. Just then, my phone dings.
Chrissy
LOL speak of the devil. We were just talking about u
Another text comes through. This one is a selfie she’s just taken, naked, lying face-down with her ass up in the air and none other than Gerard plowing her from behind.
Chrissy
come join?! :D I want your gorgeous cock in me.
I smirk as I peer at their lust-filled faces…faces that are flushed, with wide, dilated pupils. Okay, it's obvious why they’re up at eight in the morning. They’re still fucked up from whatever they took last night—speed or coke, knowing them—to keep the marathon fuck-fest going.
Chrissy
LOL. Gerard says “same” LMAO
I take a slow drag of my cigarette instead of answering.
It should be tempting. It should be more than tempting. Not tempting enough for me to skip rehearsal. I never do that for anything. But tempting enough for me to tell them to take a few more hits and keep the party going until I can join them later.
But there’s nothing tempting about the offer at all. And when my dick starts to grow hard, it’s not because I’m imagining Gerard and Chrissy taking turns deep throating me or bending over and saying please, Daddy, fuck my slutty hole.
It’s because the fantasy has abruptly switched to someone else doing the very same things.
Ding ding ding…motherfucking Roman.
God. Fucking. Dammit.
Why am I hard for that fucker? Who, I might add, hit me—I mean, obviously not on purpose, but still. Why the fuck am I turned on by that and the hundred other red flags that are Roman Nikitin?
“Will you please fucking quit those things already?”
I don’t bother responding to Chrissy, just set my phone down on the metal fire escape next to me. Then I look up and grin around my cigarette at Naomi.
“Good morning to you, too, baby girl.”
Naomi, another dancer with the Zakharova that I’m about as close with as I am with Brooklyn, eyes my cigarette despairingly. “Seriously. Gross. Toss it, please?”
I sigh and nod my chin at the two coffees in her hands. “Depends. One of those for me?”
“Duh, of course, bitch,” she grins. “Only if you lose the cancer stick, though.”
“Don’t try to tell me what to do, Mom!” I sigh dramatically.
Naomi rolls her eyes. “You want the coffee or not?”
“God, yes.”
I toss the cigarette away and gratefully pluck the to-go cup from her hand.
“What up, bitches!”
We both turn to see Lyra approaching down the alley, coffee in hand, her dance bag slung over her shoulder.
“What are we chatting about?” She grunts as she drops the heavy bag to the ground and hops up onto the fire escape, next to where I was just perched.
“Val’s disgusting smoking habit,” Naomi grumbles.
Lyra makes a face, pulling her red hair back and quickly twisting it up into a dancer’s bun. “For real—it’s fucking disgusting. Total turnoff.”
“Well, luckily for all of us,” I smile sweetly, “I’ve never concerned myself with whether or not I turn you on or—”
“Eew!” Lyra chokes out a laugh, throwing the napkin wrapped around her coffee cup at me and making a face. “Why are you so gross?”
“Come on, baby,” I tease, lifting my shirt and rolling my stomach muscles. “You know you want a piece of this.”
Lyra groans and rolls her eyes. Naomi makes a tsk-tsk sound.
“You remember the part where Lyra's husband is the head of a Mafia family, yeah?” Naomi snickers. “Oh, and certifiably cray-cray?”
Lyra snorts. “I mean, no lie detected, but have you met your man?”
“As if we need to be reminded how incestuous this little group of ours is,” I groan, making a face.
Lyra’s husband, Carmine, is the don of the Barone family—and yes, certifiably fucking insane. Naomi’s boyfriend-slash-probably-husband-any-day-now is Carmine’s brother, Nico.
…Who is also, in my totally unqualified opinion, completely psychotic.
For a second, my gaze slides between the two of them as they gab and gossip, laughing together about something that happened at dinner with the four of them last weekend.
I don’t have what they have. I’ve never had that. And they found it so easily.
Family. A shared bond. Love.
I mean, I have Vaughn, and don’t get me wrong, I fucking love that I’ve discovered this brother I didn’t even know I had.
But…it’s a slow process with us. We’re close, but still not close-close.
Part of it is the years spent apart, but my brother is also very clear that the Obsidian Syndicate is his family, and there’s an unspoken follow-up to that that the Syndicate and that brotherhood comes before me and our brotherhood.
Eh, it is what it is.
And love?
I snort inwardly.
Love is just a tangle of emotions, fucky brain chemistry, and lust wanting to be something more. I’m happy for Naomi and Lyra, though…and Milena and Brooklyn, for that matter. They found it so easily: that thing I know I won’t, because of who I am.
It’s not a queer thing.
It’s a me thing.