Chapter Seven #2
His first job was working at a makeup store for a whole day before he accidentally stabbed a woman in the eye with a mascara brush.
Mine was filing at my dad’s accounting firm when I was in middle school.
Showing me around his workplace was the most animated my very stoic, docile father has ever been, but the next summer, my mom enrolled me at Camp Merethyl.
I was destined to be something Urzoth-worthy, with strength and physicality, not a quiet office clerk.
Pretty sure the only reason my mom married my dad is because he rolls over for whatever she wants and makes her feel like a true Urzoth follower when she quote-unquote wins so often.
Which is something I text to Alexo before realizing, oops, that might have been too deep for a text conversation? I pivot us back to getting-to-know-each-other ground: neither of us have had any pets, we’re both only children, he’s a Virgo, I’m a Taurus.
He sends me a selfie in front of the cheerleader bus as they’re getting ready to depart for NYC. His tongue’s sticking out, freckles highlighted in a faint blush, and his pale blue crop top reads MY BIRTHSTONE IS A GLITTER BOMB in bold sparkly font.
I hate that the players are on a separate bus.
Hate that I haven’t seen or touched him in five days, but I can’t hate it too much, because I know things about him now.
The fuzzed edges of his mysteries are starting to clear, and even though there are still large unanswered questions, a foundation is building, ready for whatever weight it’ll have to bear.
Tem Raussec doesn’t exist online. No socials, no news reports about him. I consider and dismiss the idea of hiring a PI to get more info on him. He didn’t seem to be the source of Alexo’s stress, just a jerk, and I don’t want to go that obsessive. Yet.
I’m also proud of myself for not contacting Alexo’s landlord like I did for Seb and throwing money at his problems anonymously. Again, yet.
All things considered, I’m being pretty patient and levelheaded and not spiraling wildly about Alexo, and it reaffirms that, even though I had moments of relapsing, I haven’t entirely lost myself. I can be calm and rational. I can have composure.
Until I see Alexo on the red carpet outside the charity gala at a glitzy hotel in the middle of Manhattan. Composure? Ha. I barely know her.
He’s in high-waisted, wide-legged black pants and heavy black combat boots, a goth counterweight to his airy satin tank top with thin spaghetti straps in a rosebud color that matches the pretty blush on his cheeks.
The top droops and sways over his torso, showing all the lean, honed muscles in his arms and chest, more of that body glitter dusted across his skin. Gods, I want to roll around in it.
But it isn’t just glitter that has him sparkling.
He’s got some kind of gold body chain that loops around his neck and shoulders and cuts down between his pecs, dipp-ing under his collar before it goes fuck knows where below his shirt.
The body chain goes under his clothes.
How far down?
My jaw’s open. I know it is.
Marlow cackles at me.
We’re at one end of the gala’s red carpet while Treva leads Alexo to me—it’s a staged procession, making sure every single journalist gets plenty of time to prepare for the rawball Beauty and the Beast’s next moment.
A few reporters shout out more questions about last night’s game against the New York Ghouls: 21–15, us.
Mostly thanks to Marlow who, even though the field our artificers built wasn’t water, zipped around those desert dunes like they might as well have been an ocean.
And, okay, the main reason she was able to move so freely was because of my defenses, which is why we’ve spent the past twenty minutes fielding questions about our technique and partnership.
As well as questions about our next game.
It’s at home.
Against the Chimeras.
Luckily, the publicists prepped me for questions like that. I have to smile and say I’m excited to see my old teammates.
So that’s what I do. Lie through my teeth.
Treva deposits Alexo behind Marlow and me and gives a subtle bob of her chin.
Time for a different kind of lying that’s not really lying at all.
I pluck off the enchanted earring and pass it to Marlow. She takes it, then slaps my ass as I’m walking away.
“Go get your man,” she signs.
A laugh barks out of me.
The rest of the team might still be heavily cordial with me, but Marlow’s blissfully just … Marlow.
Alexo’s glaring at Marlow when I close in around him and Treva, and I gotta say, I don’t hate the flare of jealousy in his eyes.
I slide my arm around his waist and that jealousy evaporates, getting blinked away in favor of a sudden, breathless gasp and big round eyes that look even rounder lined in coal black and streaks of shimmery gold.
Alexo relaxes against me, hand on my chest, and he smiles, all those days we spent apart coming to a head.
“Dark chocolate peanut butter cups,” I tell him.
His brows bend in question.
“Isn’t that how we start interactions between us now?” My grin is taunting and makes him roll his eyes.
“Oh, hilarious.” A deeper blush stains his cheeks, his freckles vibrant. “Mock my awkwardness. That’s low-hanging fruit, Orok. I expected better from you.”
“Low-hanging fruit? Are you saying you’re usually awkward?
I vehemently disagree.” I lean in—I can’t help it, can’t stop myself when he’s right here, back in my arms again—and press my face behind his ear, inhaling deep.
His apple brightness streaks directly to my groin and he shivers at the pull of my breath.
“You’re graceful,” I whisper to him. “Self-assured. And absolutely stunning, especially tonight.”
Alexo makes a keening noise in his throat, and his grip on my shirt clenches into a fist.
“Gods, you two are nailing this,” Treva interrupts, partly surveying the interviews happening with my teammates across the red carpet.
A couple of yards down, Phei is giving an interview as a fire elemental. Another publicist stands behind them with a fire extinguisher, occasionally keeping the red carpet from bursting into flames.
Treva seems unbothered. Unlike the reporter interviewing Phei, who’s holding a microphone as far from himself as he can and keeps yanking his hand back with a yelp.
“Keep that up exactly as you have it. Whew, damn.” Treva fans herself. “Have you been practicing?”
Part of my mouth tips up in a smile, and I look down at Alexo. “Yeah. Practicing.”
He blushes again. Or still. Bites that glossy lower lip and shrugs at Treva. “We committed to the cause.”
Treva flicks through something on her phone. “Okay—you need to give a short interview with a reporter before you go in. Then spend the rest of the night—”
She looks up at the way Alexo’s still tucked against me and I’m unable to focus on anything other than him.
“—doing that.” She hesitates, head cocking. “Are you two actually—oh my gods. This is amazing!”
I’m quick to spin toward her. “It doesn’t change anything we’ve agreed to do. Our private relationship doesn’t have any bearing on our public relationship.”
“Oh, of course,” Treva says. “I meant it’s adorable! What a way to meet, huh?”
Alexo snorts. “Yeah, adorable.” He dips his head and quietly adds, “A bar fight, stalking, attempted kidnapping—”
I pinch his side through his silky tank top and he lets out a devastatingly cute squeak.
Treva waves us toward a reporter near the middle of the carpet, held back with the others by a velvet rope. “Let him ask a few questions, then make your way inside. And a heads-up—he’s going to ask about Urzoth. Reverend Drach wanted a more direct tie between the happy couple and the church.”
My grip on Alexo tightens, muscles previously relaxed by him going rock solid.
Treva bats her hand at the sudden strain on my face. “It won’t be anything preachy, just fluff stuff.”
Alexo pushes his weight against me. “Okay,” he tells her. “We got this.”
She winks before going over to Marlow, who’s still being accosted with questions and photographs. Hellhounds publicists bustle all around, dipping in and out of interviews, gallantly trying to herd us like keeping kittens in a box.
Alexo and I walk away, my arm around him, but my head’s stuck on what Treva said.
Urzoth is a part of this whole arrangement. Shouldn’t be shocking, derailing.
And yet.
Alexo tugs on the fist he still has in my tuxedo shirt. “Hey. It’ll be fine. I can take the questions. He’s my patron god now, too.”
My anxiety doesn’t alleviate, not at all. “No. I’ll—I’ll do it. It’s fine. Expected, even. Don’t worry about it.”
“Hm.” Alexo surveys my expression, cheek caught in his teeth. “You’re allowed to worry about me, but I can’t worry about you?”
My lips part.
We’ve reached the reporter, and a recording device is thrust into my face.
The reporter’s smiling too big, too eager, and I’m going into this off-balance.
“Orok Monroe,” he starts. “What can you tell us about the new developments in tonight’s charity?”
I let some of my muscles drop. See? It’s a normal interview.
And the topic does make me perk up.
“Thrive Children is a national organization the pro rawball league has partnered with for decades,” I say. “I’ve been lucky enough to be involved since I signed. They do fantastic work helping us set up rawball camps, and we’ve gotten to—”
“Yes, yes, we all know the pamphlet spiel,” the reporter cuts in, and I flinch.
Alexo does, too.
“Tell me about the new programs Thrive Children is allegedly implementing,” he continues. “Something about a crisis hotline and therapy access?”
My chin draws back, shock making my grip on Alexo spasm. I should let him go; he’s not a stress ball. But as I peel away, and he puts his hand over mine on his hip.
“I’m not at liberty to speak about anything in development,” I manage.
How does this guy know about those programs?