Chapter 8
Eight
SOREN
The second I step back into my suite, I press my back against the door and breathe.
What a fucking day!
Grabbing a bottle of water from the kitchenette, I down half of it, and collapse onto the edge of the bed.
Battle-mages with trust issues got their due, and I somehow survived the onslaught of selfies, swooning, and a very enthusiastic grad student who tried to hand me her annotated thesis, complete with contact info and lipstick kisses.
It was a standing-room-only crowd, three people in tears, one guy who fist-pumped at every mention of “shadow-forged vulnerability.” All in all, my lecture was a smashing success.
So, why do I feel like a fucking mess?
Oh, I know why? Because I just finished a three-act play called Keeping My Shit Together in Front of Ava Bell. And I deserve a fucking Tony for it too. Maybe even an Oscar.
For the last few hours, I’ve been in performance mode—smirking for every reader, nodding at every question a panelist asks me to make it appear as though I’m actively listening, and delivering charm to hundreds of people in pre-approved doses while internally trying not to replay every second of this morning’s gym confrontation, which has been damn near impossible.
To my surprise, I was given the director’s cut.
It’s been on repeat in my head all damn day.
Ava Bell. Ava Fucking Bell.
Snark and guarded glimpses, along with way too much vulnerability hidden under sarcasm—they’re all a challenge I can’t stop rising to meet.
I saw her three times today. Backstage, I tripped over a cable and nearly face-planted into her heels.
Another time, at her signing table, a reader approached me.
I grabbed a pink glitter gel pen instead of a Sharpie and started signing, staring awkwardly at Ava the whole time.
And in the hotel café. I swerved to avoid her, nailed the sharp corner of the pastry table, and got decked right in the balls.
Every encounter with her was a battlefield.
We played our parts—smiles sharp, voices pitched—but underneath? Total carnage. Rigid shoulders, molars grinding, avoiding eye contact as if it were radioactive. The crowd probably bought it. We didn’t.
I’ve got maybe two hours to breathe before the Camille and Renata Variety Hour, aka hell in couture.
Tossing my leather jacket across the back of the couch, I run a hand through my hair and collapse onto the edge of the bed as though gravity’s finally had enough of my shit.
My phone dings. I remove it from my pants pocket. Lena. Fuck my life.
So… no reply?
That’s how you’re playing this?
Rolling my eyes, I flip it face down. Not right now. Or ever.
After toeing off my boots, I scrub a hand across my scruffy jaw, where Ava’s eyes lingered earlier. I think she likes it. It was barely a second. But I saw it. Felt it. I’m not imagining that.
Am I?
I drive her crazy. I’m pretty sure she wants to throw her phone at my head, but maybe also ride my cock. I’m not opposed to either.
This tension I generate with women isn’t new. The sultry smiles. The heated silences. The stares that say, just once.
I’ve always known how to leverage lust. How to bend it. Manipulate it. Let it get me what I want, whether it's the deal, the gig, the attention, or the cleanest exit possible.
Ava’s different.
I want her heart.
That’s corny. And yet, true.
I’m about one thousand percent sure Ava is attracted to me. Based on what I witnessed in the locker room this morning, I could argue that point in a court of law and win. With exhibits. Possibly a PowerPoint.
But it’s more than that. It’s in the way she looks at me when she doesn’t realize she is. There’s a hint of curiosity in her eyes. The real trick won’t be seducing her.
It’ll be earning her.
If I play this right—if I stop being the version of me that leans on the swagger and charm, and start being the man who listens, who shows up, who’s there for her…
I can turn that heat into something deeper than surface level. I’ll be the man she can’t walk away from just because the lights went off and the keywords died.
I don’t want to be Ava Bell’s fantasy.
I want to be her reality.
One arm flops across my face. The sheets smell clean, clinical, unlike everything else I’ve felt today. Ever since sunrise, my body’s been wound tight. The only release I’ve had was lifting weights. I was raging during those reps.
No. That’s a lie.
There was another release inside that gym. Just not mine.
I still can’t believe I caught Ava masturbating in a hotel locker room. The images of what she must’ve looked like inside that stall flood back in.
Ava’s flushed skin. Pursed lips. Her voice when she cried out my name.
She said when I was lifting. I heard it again while she was inside that bathroom. And now it’s all I can hear. And see.
My hand slides down my stomach, fingers skimming the waistband of my pants.
I retract. I shouldn’t.
My cock’s rock-fucking-hard, and when I close my eyes, the visual is immediate.
Ava—breathless, head thrown back as her hand between her thighs, working her clit.
I know it’s real.
I heard it.
I saw it.
Before you judge me, know this: I wasn’t trying to be a creep. I’d doubled back to the gym two minutes after leaving to ask if she wanted to grab coffee. Or breakfast. Something normal. Something that isn’t staged, scripted, or buried in sarcasm. Something human.
When I walked in, the gym was empty. The women’s locker room door was cracked. I thought I heard a sound—soft, choked.
At first, I panicked, thought Ava might be hurt. Or sick. I called her name. No response.
So naturally, I pushed open the women’s locker room door.
There she was. Inside the stall, legs braced wide. The sounds she made were unmistakable. One hand was most likely clamped over her mouth, while the other punished her clit.
I backed out immediately. Fast. Silent. Adrenaline coursing through me as though I’d committed a crime witnessing it.
It certainly felt like one.
No matter how hard I try, the image won’t leave my brain. The heat. The desperation.
Now I’m stuck.
Hard as hell.
Mind unraveling.
Palm twitching, caught between guilt and obsession.
I want her.
But I shouldn’t have seen that.
Except I did.
Fuck me—I loved it.
My hand moves lower. Unthinking. Needing more.
Unzipping my pants, I push them down. My cock springs free, hot, heavy, leaking from the mental reel on repeat.
Ava.
Hand buried. Soren on her lips.
I pump once. Twice. A breath escapes me. She’s behind my eyes, hips shifting, breath catching, thighs trembling.
I’m circling the edge of control, tugging harder now, chasing the same high she found when she thought no one was watching.
Ding.
The sound cuts through the room.
Another ding.
I groan. My phone starts ringing. I grab it, turn it over. Matthew.
He can go to voicemail.
I wrap my hand tight around myself, chest heaving when yet another fucking text message comes through. Matthew.
We have a problem. Call me. Now.
Of course we do. And of course it happens when I’m several strokes deep into a fantasy about the woman I’m faking a relationship with.
Nothing like real-world drama knocking at the door and a very real, very hard problem in my hand.
I exhale, then grab my phone. “Fuck.”
I swipe the notification and hit call. Matthew picks up on the first ring.
He doesn’t bother with hello. That Lena chick posted something. She’s not naming names, but it’s damn close.”
My gut knots. “What do you mean, close.”
“She tagged a ‘certain sword-wielding author’ and said, quote, ‘It’s not okay when someone uses power, popularity, and charm to seduce during a professional collaboration—then tosses you aside like it never happened. Being magnetic doesn’t excuse treating people like they’re disposable.’”
The floor tilts beneath me.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “I told you—we hooked up once, last year at the Christmas in July series. She came on to me again at the Summerween Festival a few months ago, but I shut it down. She’s sent a few texts since, but I haven’t answered.”
“Good. Don’t. This is Lena we’re talking about. She doesn’t throw shade. She constructs narratives. And right now, she’s laying the foundation for a damn exposé. Comments are stacking up—people are connecting dots that were never even in the same damn coloring book.”
I start pacing the hotel suite like a lion in a trap. “She’s pissed because I told her no.”
“No,” Matthew corrects flatly. “She’s pissed because she showed up to your signing in a corset dress and six-inch stilettos, tried to kiss you, and you turned her down as though she was a drink you didn’t order. You bruised her ego, man.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t want to make a scene. So yeah, I pulled her aside. Told her we were nothing. I gave no mixed signals. There was no flirty bullshit. Only the truth.”
“And now she’s framing it how she wants it.”
“She’s trying to twist this into something it isn’t because I didn’t want her.”
“And according to the internet, you’ve got someone new, beautiful, and not her. Hate to break it to you, man, but hell hath no fury like a scorned ShelfSpacer.”
“Not funny.”
“Didn’t say it was.” Matthew sighs through the phone. “Just pointing out the obvious.”
I drop onto the chair by the window. My elbows hit my knees, and I press my palms into my temples. “What the hell do I do?”
“I’ll get with legal. Start drafting a statement in case this hits critical mass. You’ve gotta stay clean. Stay visible, but not reactive. And for the love of God, don’t try to explain yourself online.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You stick to the script with Ava. Let the world see you as genuine and taken. That story has traction. People are rooting for it. They’ll see Lena as a jealous ex.”
“She’s not my ex.”
“You know what I mean.”
“And if it blows up in my face?”
“We pivot. We don’t let Lena own the plot. Okay?”
I sigh. “Okay.”
We hang up. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. There’s a flush along my neck, and a flash of darkness behind my eyes. Shame. Frustration. Fury.
I look like the villain.
I feel like the villain.
I’m not the villain.
And I’ll be damned if I let Lena write me as one, no matter how many irrelevant hashtags she hides her lies behind. She can’t twist the past and ruin my future. I’m finally holding something in the palm of my hand that could be true.
What I have with Ava might be fake on paper. But she’s not. Neither are the feelings clawing their way up every time she laughs, snaps, or looks at me. I may be the last person she wants, but I’m the only one she needs. Even through all the denial she’s fighting against.
I won’t let Lena destroy that.
There's possibility with Ava and me. A spark. A chance. I’ll prove I’m worth more than the worst version of someone else’s story. Even if it kills me.