Chapter 7
Gage
In the morning, I stop by Francesca’s building. Heavy smog coats the sky, matching my mood.
I still haven’t heard from Leah. My patience is gone. As I wait for the elevator, I call Dmitri. No answer. I call him again. This time when it goes to voicemail, I leave a message. “I’m calling to check on Leah. I’d like to talk to her.”
I end the call and go up to Francesca’s office. Dove is already waiting with Francesca. The three of us look over the statement Dove will post to PhotoGram on my behalf.
I would like to set the record straight.
Nicola Johnson and I are not currently in a relationship, and we have not been together in sixteen years.
My current relationship has nothing to do with Nicola, although I do wish Nicola the best. Please respect my wish to move forward with my life, and respect my new relationship.
I am a private person and will not entertain questions or requests for interviews at this time.
Dove shows me the account she created for me. My profile image is a generic headshot. The short bio is briefer than most. Actor, Academy of Ghosts, Seasons 3-5 .
I already have four thousand followers.
“When did you create my account?” I ask.
“This morning.” Dove holds the phone out, as if waiting for something. My approval? It won’t happen. I’m an actor, but even I can’t fake those kinds of feelings.
“Well?” Francesca gestures at the phone. “Hit publish .”
“Right.” I jab it with my thumb.
There. Now it’s out. I’m not panicking.
But I’m not happy, either.
I make the right noises of gratitude and say quick farewells to Francesca and Dove. The trip down to my car is a blur. The post is live, and people will be making of it what they will. The words don’t belong to me anymore; they belong to the public.
Actually, the words were never mine to begin with. There’s something freeing in that thought.
The drive home to San Esteban is quicker than usual. There’s nothing for me at home—Leah isn’t waiting. Gone are the evenings when I arrive home and she’s curled up on the sofa with a book in hand, waiting for me. That miniature snapshot of domesticity was just that—a snapshot, a teaser of reality.
A tiny woman with a head full of long, black braids stands near the parking garage elevator. As I approach, her braids come into better view. They’re tipped with blue and purple.
She smooths her hands over her business suit. “Gage Hawthorne?”
So she’s a reporter. A flare of anger bursts like a phoenix in my heart. I stride past her and jab the elevator button. “How did you get into this garage? It’s a private space, monitored.”
“Please, only a couple of questions. My name is Beryl Crake. I want the real story?—”
“I have no interest in speaking with you.” I search the area for photographers; no doubt there are several hidden behind nearby cars. “No photos, no interviews. No fucking comment!”
“Mr. Hawthorne, I saw your post on PhotoGram, and?—”
“No.” I feel bad for swearing at her. I don’t want to be this person. I take several breaths and cloak myself in my dominant, calm persona. Free of anger, free of fear. Free of any emotion whatsoever.
She sees the change in me and her brown eyes widen with understanding. “I apologize for coming to you like this. If you ever want to talk...here’s my card.”
I stare at the paper pinched between her fingers, but I make no move to take it. The elevator doors open with a soft chime. I step through them and carefully, calmly, push the button to my floor.
The reporter’s lips quirk upward in a playful grin. As the elevator doors close, she flings the card into the elevator. It lands face-up next to my shoe. The print is blocky and easy to read. Beryl Crake, San Esteban Sun , followed by an email and phone number.
As the elevator moves up, I leave the card on the floor.
My heart is hammering with residual anger and fear from the altercation.
I lean against the elevator wall, gripping my chest, fighting off panic.
The calm, dominant cloak I put on is nothing more than smoke and visual effects. Pixels on a screen. Tricks of the eye.
No doubt, a write-up of my two minutes with Beryl Crake will be plastered all over the San Esteban Sun in the morning. She got what she wanted: a reaction.
But what I want—safety and privacy in my own building?
I don’t think I’ll ever have that again.
* * *
Leah
Dmitri fed me breakfast this morning, then said, “It’s time to go fishing.”
“Fishing” at his family cabin isn’t traditional fishing.
It means carting lawn chairs, a shit-ton of snacks, and books and other entertainment to the dock.
Once there, the people “fishing” throw a ceremonial stick in the water along with some sacrificial Goldfish crackers. Then they lean back and relax.
So that’s where we are now. We’ve been out here for hours.
Two folding recliners, snacks between us, the sound of the water lapping at the shore and the dock.
I have on cut-off jean shorts and one of Dmitri’s T-shirts.
The sun is warm against my bare legs and arms, but a light breeze cools my skin.
Dmitri is reading an out-of-date car magazine that was long-ago left in the cabin.
I have my laptop open to a webcomic Danica told me about ages ago.
I never got around to reading it before, but that’s what fishing is all about—indulging in unnecessary pastimes.
I don’t have any tutoring sessions until tomorrow. I aim to squeeze every second of enjoyment out of this day.
The comic includes sexy vampires and werewolves in an old western setting.
The colors are gorgeous, and for cartoon characters, the guys are pretty hot.
In fact, I’m pretty sure Gage’s character from AoG inspired the vampire hero in the webcomic.
The cheekbones, the strong jaw, the heavy brows over mesmerizing brown eyes—all the same.
Or maybe I miss him so much, I’m seeing him everywhere.
I hold my laptop up to Dmitri. “Does this vampire look like Gage?”
He looks up from his magazine and frowns. “I don’t know, maybe?”
I turn the image back to me. The vampire in question could definitely be Gage, but Dmitri doesn’t see it. I’m only seeing it because I miss him.
It’s a sign.
“Okay.” I close the laptop and set it to the side. “I’m ready to call Gage.”
Dmitri looks up from his car magazine. “Yeah?”
I hold out my hand. “Give me my phone. I’m doing it now.”
Gray eyes dancing, he takes my phone from his pocket and pulls his hand back like he’s going to throw it into the water.
“Dmitri!”
“I’ve been wanting to chuck this thing in the lake since we got here.”
“Don’t you dare…”
He relaxes his throwing arm. “I wouldn’t, baby. But I can’t deny, I’ve enjoyed having you all to myself.”
I pause. Dmitri asked me if I’m capable of being with two men, of falling for them both. “Did you mean what you said, that morning after the Salding party?”
“My apology?” He tilts his head to the side, confused. “I meant every word.”
“The part about sharing me with Gage, about wanting me to fall for you both, and letting you both fall for me.”
He gets out of his folding lounge to kneel next to mine.
He lifts my sunglasses so he can see my eyes, shielding the sun with his free hand so I don’t have to squint.
“I fucking meant it. I don’t think either of us deserves you, but if you want me, and him—we’re yours.
But you can’t blame me for being a little selfish sometimes, right? ”
I stifle a smile. “I guess not. Just wanted to make sure.”
“I’m sure.” He kisses me, swift and fierce, then presses my phone into my hand. “Take your phone and call the broody asshole already. Poor guy must be in purgatory without you.”
Before I dial, a text pops up. The first line is one word: Important . Yeah, that already looks spammy, or like something a reporter would send. I swipe it with my thumb to delete it, but accidentally open it instead.
A video starts playing.
“You like that?” Gage’s voice. The camera shifts from Nicola to show his upper body. He’s shirtless. The tattoo on his arm looks fresh.
“Noooo.” Half-whimper, half-moan.
“Good.”
The camera focuses on Nicola again. Another slapping sound. Nicola jerks forward, her face twisted in pain.
I scramble to stop the video, to make it go away, but I drop my phone. It clatters to the deck. The video continues.
“Please—please stop ? —”
“Go ahead, cry for me, Nicky. Your tears make me hard.”
I can’t—I can’t do this.
Dmitri swoops down, grabs my phone, and shuts it off. “Leah, the fuck? I thought you learned your lesson!”
I throw out my hands, anger and devastation warring in my chest. So much fucking pressure. The tears that arose when I first saw the video spill over my cheeks, but I’m not sad anymore—I’m pissed. “Don’t shout at me! I was trying to delete it!”
He rubs his forehead like he’s trying to ward off a headache. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, so am I.” The video hangs in the air like a bad smell. I can still see it, hear it.
“Come here.” He moves to gather me in his arms.
I clamber out of my chair and step back. “I need some space.”
He doesn’t chase after me when I rush toward the cabin. I’m a selfish asshole, leaving him behind to bring everything in. Yet I can’t force myself to turn around and help.
I just want this to stop. I don’t want to face any of it, I don’t want to deal with it, I don’t want to think about it.
When I reach the cabin, I turn around to look behind me. Dmitri stands on the dock, backlit by the sun glinting off the water. I can’t tell whether he’s facing me or the lake.
Either way, he looks like I feel. Defeated.
* * *
Gage
It’s Friday, so I go to Low Vice, intending to sequester myself in my office.
But I haven’t taken more than five steps into the club before I catch sight of Seth Colton.
He’s leaning back in a booth, his arms extended out on either side of him, resting on the back of the seat.
It makes him look like a prince surveying his entertainment.
He sees me at the same time I see him. He waves me over. “Gage, hey. Where’s your girl?”
I only shake my head.
“Well, that isn’t a promising look.” He offers me a commiserating smile. His beard is like mine—more long stubble than a full beard. “I’d order you a drink, but Betty won’t serve us alcohol.”
I don’t need a drink; I need Leah. I miss her with an ache that refuses to ease, no matter how I try to assuage it.
“Have a seat, Jannik.” He scoots over. “There’s fun to be had. The cross is getting some good use.”
His booth has a perfect view of the St. Andrew’s cross.
There, a Domme is engaged in a power struggle with her bratty male submissive.
How would Leah respond to being tied up there, in full view of the club?
She appreciates a lick of pain with her pleasure, and she enjoys some degree of exhibitionism. Would the cross be too much?
Probably sensing my thoughts are still on Leah, Colton says, “Are you interested in sharing her? We could tame her together.”
Colton has taken part in my games in the past. He was my first choice for watching Leah in the car. Last time we talked, he was interested in watching again. Now he wants to engage.
Possessiveness flares in my chest. I stamp it out and pack it away.
I keep my eyes on the scene playing out at the cross.
The male submissive says something unintelligible.
It must be disrespectful, because the Domme’s eyes alight with sadistic anticipation.
She can’t wait to punish the sub for his impertinence.
“I’m not interested in sharing.” My words are curt. “But I don’t own her, Colton. So I guess that would be up to her.”
He gives me a thoughtful look, but he doesn’t press the issue.
My phone rings. Mateo Gold. I haven’t heard from him in a few years. Standing up, I nod at Colton. “I have to take this, sorry.”
“No problem.” He gives me a mock salute. “Good luck with the girl, Jannik.”
He’s sincere, but he’s no actor. His interest in Leah is evident to anyone who cares to look.
Shoving the thought aside, I answer Mateo’s call. “It’s a bit late in the evening for business.”
“Gage, I have something for you,” he says without preamble. As if we’re picking up a conversation we left off yesterday, instead of several years ago.
“Mateo. We’ve had this conversation.”
“This script, Gage. You need to see it. Kobayashi is directing?—”
“It’s good hearing from you, Mateo. I hope you’re well. But you’re no longer my agent.”
He clears his throat, offers me a half-hearted chuckle. “I could be. And you could get back in front of the camera where you belong.”
“Nothing sounds worse than that. My answer is the same as it’s been for the past sixteen years, Mateo. No . I’m not interested in returning to Hollywood. Not now, not ever. I’m done.”
“Gage, this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“You said that about the last three scripts. Goodbye, Mateo.”
I end the call, shutting off his protests.
As soon as I do, my phone rings again. I swear under my breath, ready to decline the call without looking. Luckily, I glance at the screen first.
The new caller is Leah.