Chapter 14
Jess
Happiness is a dangerous drug. It alters your perception of risk. It makes you feel bulletproof when you are actually made of glass.
I was dancing the solo for the Winter Showcase, a piece called Entropy that was supposed to be about chaos and dissolution.
But today, my body refused to dissolve. My lines were sharp.
My extensions were limitless. When I leaped, I felt like I hung in the air a second longer than gravity should allow.
"Stop," the choreographer, Madame LeClair, called out, clapping her hands once. The sharp sound echoed in the high-ceilinged studio.
I landed in a crouch, my chest heaving, sweat dripping from my nose. I waited for the critique. Usually, it was brutal. Your foot is sickled. Your core is mush. You look like a dying swan, Jessica, not a force of nature.
Madame LeClair walked around me, her cane tapping a rhythm on the floor. She stopped in front of me, peering over her spectacles.
"You are dancing differently," she accused.
"Differently good or differently bad?" I panted, wiping my forehead with my wrist.
"Differently... anchored," she said, searching for the word. "Usually, you dance like you are trying to escape your own skin. Today, you are occupying it. You are... solid."
She tapped my sternum with her cane. "What changed?"
I fell in love with a hockey player who looks like a villain and touches like a sinner, I thought. And yesterday, on a cliff overlooking the ocean, he told me I was his empire.
"I got some sleep," I lied, flashing a breathless smile.
"Hmph. Sleep. Or a boy." She waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever it is, bottle it. Again. From the top."
I reset. I danced. I felt invincible.
The contract, the threats from Nick's father, the eviction notices—they all felt like distant nightmares. I had Nick. We had a plan. We were going to survive the draft, get the money, and buy the dog. It was a simple, beautiful equation.
I was so high on the dopamine of being loved that I forgot the first rule of survival:
When you stop looking for the trap, that’s when it snaps shut.
Nick was leaving for Chicago at noon.
His flight was at 2:00 PM. The town car his father had sent—because of course he sent a car, checking up on his investment—was picking him up at the Meridian at 11:30 AM.
I had forty-five minutes between rehearsals. It was reckless. It was stupid. But I couldn't let him leave for two weeks without seeing him one last time.
I texted him.
Me: Where are you?
Nick: Packing. Town car is downstairs waiting. Driver is staring at his watch.
Me: I'm at the Arts Annex. Prop room. Level B. It's unlocked.
Nick: Jess, I can't. If I'm late...
Me: Five minutes. I need to see your face.
The three dots danced on the screen for an agonizing ten seconds.
Nick: On my way.
I sprinted down the back stairs to the basement level. The Arts Annex was a labyrinth of practice rooms, costume storage, and prop closets. It was quiet down here, smelling of dust, old velvet, and paint thinner.
I found the prop room—a cavernous space filled with fake trees, antique sofas, and a giant papier-maché moon from a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream.
I slipped inside, leaving the door cracked just a hair so he could find it.
My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was dangerous. If someone saw Nick Vance, the campus celebrity, sneaking into a basement closet with the "scholarship girl," the rumors wouldn't just restart; they would explode.
But I didn't care. I needed to touch him. I needed to ground myself before the long separation.
Two minutes later, the door creaked open.
Nick slipped inside.
He was wearing his "travel armor"—a fitted black suit, a white shirt open at the collar, and sunglasses he took off as the door clicked shut behind him. He looked expensive. He looked exhausted. He looked like the man who was about to go make five million dollars.
"You are a bad influence," he murmured, locking the door.
"I'm a muse," I corrected, stepping out from behind a rack of medieval costumes.
He crossed the distance in two long strides. He dropped his sunglasses on a table and grabbed me. His hands were hard, desperate. He pulled me into him, burying his face in my neck.
"I have to leave in ten minutes," he groaned against my skin. "The driver is going to call my father if I'm not in the car."
"Then don't talk," I whispered, tangling my hands in his hair. "Just hold me."
He kissed me. It wasn't the slow, healing kiss of the ocean. It was frantic. It was a goodbye kiss laced with the terror of separation. He tasted like mint and coffee and anxiety.
I pressed him back against a stack of plywood scenery flats. The wood groaned under his weight.
"Chicago," I breathed against his mouth. "Just two weeks. Be the machine. Win the interviews. Come back."
"I don't want to go," he admitted, his hands roaming over my leotard, gripping my waist, my hips. "I hate it. I hate that I'm leaving you here."
"I'm safe here. I'm boring. I'm just going to dance and study."
"You're never boring."
He lifted me up, sitting me on a sturdy oak table used for period dramas. He stepped between my legs, pressing his hips against mine. The friction was electric. Even through the layers of clothes—his suit trousers, my tights—I could feel how hard he was.
"Nick," I gasped. "We can't. Not here."
"I know," he rasped, resting his forehead against mine. "I just... I need to remember this. The way you feel. The way you smell."
He inhaled deeply, his hands tightening on my thighs.
"You smell like work," he noted with a small smile.
"Sweat. Gross."
"Honest. I love it."
We stayed like that for a long time—or maybe it was only seconds. Time felt warped in the dark room. We were huddled under the papier-maché moon, two kids hiding from the monsters outside.
"The paper," I whispered. "Did you read it?"
"Not yet. I'm saving it for takeoff. When the panic sets in."
"Good."
He pulled back, looking at my face. He traced the line of my jaw with his thumb. His grey eyes were fierce, possessive.
"Don't talk to Carter," he ordered softly. "Don't talk to my father. Don't answer unknown numbers. If you need anything—anything at all—you call Jax. He knows to look out for you."
"I can look out for myself, Nick."
"Humor me. I need to know you're protected."
"Okay. I'll call Jax."
He kissed me one last time. Hard. Bruising. A brand.
Then he stepped back. He smoothed his suit jacket. He ran a hand through his hair, fixing the mess I had made. He put his sunglasses back on.
The machine was back.
"I love you," I thought. The words pushed against my teeth.
"Go," I said instead. "Go win."
"I'll call you tonight," he promised.
He unlocked the door. He checked the hallway—left, right.
"Clear," he whispered.
He slipped out.
I waited in the dark for a full five minutes, listening to the silence, hugging myself to keep the warmth of his body from fading. I felt high. I felt dizzy with the intensity of it.
We had gotten away with it. One last stolen moment.
I hopped off the table, grabbed my bag, and walked to the door. I checked the hallway. Empty.
I walked out, heading for the stairs, humming the tune of my solo.
I felt like I was floating.
I didn't see the shadow detach itself from the alcove near the vending machines until it was too late.
"Nice suit," a voice drawled.
I froze. My foot hovered over the bottom step of the staircase.
I turned slowly.
Carter was leaning against the wall, spinning a hockey puck in his hand. He was wearing his team track jacket, looking casual, bored, and utterly malicious.
My stomach dropped through the floor.
"Carter," I said, keeping my voice steady. "What are you doing in the Arts building? Get lost?"
"Nah. I'm dating a drama major. Tiffany. You know her? Loud girl. Likes attention." He tossed the puck in the air and caught it. "I was just waiting for her class to finish. And imagine my surprise when I see the Captain sprinting out of the basement like his ass is on fire."
He pushed off the wall and took a step toward me.
"And five minutes later... out pops the mouse."
He smirked. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was the smile of a predator who just found a wounded animal.
"We ran into each other," I lied. It was a flimsy, pathetic lie. "He was saying goodbye."
"In a closet?" Carter raised an eyebrow. "Is that where we say goodbye now? Because he looked... disheveled. And you..." He raked his eyes over me. "Your lips are swollen, Red. And your tights are twisted."
I fought the urge to check my tights. I lifted my chin.
"Get a life, Carter. Nick is gone. He's in Chicago. So you can stop obsessing over him."
I turned to walk away.
"I'm not obsessing over him," Carter called out to my back. "I'm obsessing over the math. See, I'm not smart like Vance, but even I know that 1 plus 1 equals a scandal."
I stopped. I didn't want to engage, but the threat in his voice snagged me.
I turned back. "What do you want?"
Carter walked up to me. He held up his phone.
"I want to show you something."
He tapped the screen and turned it toward me.
It was a photo.
It was grainy, taken in low light, but it was undeniable. It was the moment Nick had entered the prop room. The door was open. I was standing inside. He was stepping in.
But it wasn't just him entering.
It was the way he was looking at me. His hand was already reaching out, grabbing my waist. My head was thrown back in anticipation.
It looked exactly like what it was: a secret, desperate rendezvous.
"So?" I shrugged, though my heart was beating so fast I thought I might pass out. "He hugged me goodbye. We're friends. He's my employer."
Carter swiped the screen.
Another photo.
This one was from the parking garage last week. We were in the Range Rover. The windows were tinted, but the angle... Carter must have been standing right next to the windshield.
You couldn't see faces clearly, but you could see the silhouette. Two people. Locked together. My legs were clearly visible over the center console.
"Friends," Carter mocked. "Right. And I'm the Pope."