Chapter Seven #3
We haven’t gone public with anything. I’m waiting for the money to come in, and it was going to be a big announcement, one of the few projects that I’d actually attach myself to, not hide behind anonymously.
It’s important to break down stigmas around mental health, and if I can do so by using my fame and platform? I will.
Being the face of something like that was another thing that’d give my mother a conniption, but I wasn’t supposed to have to deal with that fallout for months.
“Where exactly is Thrive Children getting the funds for these programs?” the reporter asks with a slick gotcha grin.
“Rumor says it’ll be the money coming from your recent lawsuit against Camp Merethyl.
What does the Urzoth church have to say about you promoting programs that contradict the more physical, tough-it-out methods they usually employ?
Strong as stone, hard as rock, those ideals.
How do they feel about you funding these programs with the money you got through a lawsuit many Urzoth followers have criticized for also contradicting their doctrine? ”
The blood drains out of my face.
My palm’s sweating; I’m ruining Alexo’s nice satin shirt. I need to let go of him.
Step back, and let go of him.
Detached thoughts bob through my head while I gape at the reporter.
Answer the question. Just—say something.
Weak. You’re so weak. You should be handling this better.
Alexo grabs the reporter’s wrist and yanks the recording device down to him.
“Hi,” he says, smiling sweetly. But the way he’s gripping the reporter’s arm counters that, his knuckles white.
“I’m Alexo Warden, a follower of Urzoth’s.
And while I haven’t been a follower for long, I can say that assuming all Urzoth followers believe in stoic, emotionless strength is antiquated.
Not that any programs like the ones you’ve mentioned have been properly announced, but if they had been, you can certainly see how natural it would be to connect them to a church that promotes strength.
What is stronger than getting the assistance you need?
In being able to admit that you need help?
Especially for children. Don’t children deserve strength like that? ”
The reporter winces and subtly tries to pull his hand out of Alexo’s grip. “Well, I—”
“Have you had a chance to make a donation to Thrive Children tonight?” Alexo gives him a honeyed smile, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and releases his fingers, one by one.
The reporter snatches his hand away. “Uh—I don’t—”
“I’ll have someone from the organization contact you to make sure you get the chance,” Alexo says. “This is for the kids, after all. Isn’t it?”
The reporter straightens with a sniff. “Of course. No further questions.”
“Oh, I have something else to say.” Alexo waves for the recording device to come back up, and the guy obeys, albeit with a slightly what the fuck is he going to say now look.
But Alexo says into it, “Remember to keep dancing.”
His face drops into a searing glare that has the reporter cringing in surprise.
Without another word, Alexo loops his arm around my waist in mimicry of how I’m still holding him and wheels me away.
What the—
What just happened?
A publicist, not Treva, rushes to us as we climb the steps for the gala. “I caught the end of that—I’m so sorry, those were not the questions he was approved to ask.”
“Just make sure he’s encouraged to make a donation. A big one,” Alexo tells him, and the publicist hurries off.
I’m staring down at Alexo, my chest somehow both crushing in and ballooning out, weighed down in horror and free-floating from … from … him.
The inside of the hotel is glamoured up in the way big, flashy charities go all out to attract big, flashy donors.
But everything is a blurred haze, dripping chandeliers and fancy-dressed people; a watercolor background for Alexo, who steers me through the room until we push through a set of swinging doors into a utility hall, the wood flooring swapped for practical linoleum.
A few waiters and other staff mill around, but for the most part, Alexo and I have some privacy where he tucks us up in a corner.
He twists our hands together and holds the mass against his chest. “Are you all right?”
Am I all right.
If the reporter publishes that interview, I’ll have yet another thing my parents and I don’t talk about. Yet another thing Urzoth supporters will yell at me for.
Alexo stood up for me. He stepped in, and not only put that reporter in his place, but demanded money from the man.
Gods, that was sexy.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I can’t make it louder. I need to, need to shout it from the high-rise rooftop.
He grins. “It was my absolute pleasure, trust me. I so rarely get to tell people off who deserve it.” His grin slips, dimming a fraction. “What he said—”
“I, um—” My tongue feels swollen, words jamming up, but I exhale and anchor fast to—“Why did you say that, at the end? Remember to keep dancing? You said it before. What is that?”
Alexo goes from concerned to … sad.
No. Heartbroken.
He shrugs one shoulder, calling my attention to the diamond sharpness of his collarbone, the perfectly sculpted contours of his bicep. “It’s something my cousins and I used to say to each other.”
That wall of his shoots up between us, the edge of what he’ll tell me about himself.
But then he’s scaling the wall. Turning his heartbreak into righteous anger.
“I want them to hear it. Maybe they’re rawball fans and they’re watching. I want them to know I’m thinking of them.”
I can’t stop the questions this time, I really can’t. I’m taken too far down to the quick. “What happened to them?”
Alexo smiles, his eyes glistening. “It’s a long story. But I haven’t seen them in a few years.” Another shrug, trying and failing to play it off. “I … miss them. It’s a silly thing.”
No. It’s not silly, the heaviness of the anguish in his eyes, but I don’t get a chance to ask another question before he’s lobbing his own at me.
We’re done being delicate with each other’s offerings, turns out. Now, we’re taking, too.
“Are you really working on those programs?” he whispers. “A crisis hotline, therapy access?”
I was supposed to have been free from Urzoth for months, maybe a year, before they’d be announced.
I didn’t even officially agree to move forward on them until after the lawsuit.
Seb and I, and the other Camp Merethyl survivors, we’re all due to get a huge check from it, and I wanted to have something set up so I could funnel that money straight out of my account.
It isn’t mine and it sure as hell isn’t Camp Merethyl’s; it’ll go toward healing and hope.
But I still thought I’d have a long, long time before I’d have to deal with the kind of attention Alexo’s giving me. Looking up at me with awe, like I’m some kind of hero.
“It’s not a big deal,” I try. “Anyone would do it if they could. I won’t be the one actually administering any of the resources for the kids. I sign a check and let them plaster my face on promo materials. It isn’t—”
“Orok.” His face gentles. “You’re incredibly strong, you know that, right?”
My laugh is humorless. “You’re giving me too much credit. None of this is from strength. I’ve only ever felt like I’m grabbing up every possibility for even the smallest bit of relief.”
Alexo pushes closer, warm and solid against my unmoored emotions.
“You are strong. You’re strong for sponsoring these programs when you know it’ll come with the kind of scrutiny that asshole reporter showed.
Just like you went through with that lawsuit when you knew Urzoth’s followers prefer to solve problems with their fists and they’d judge you for going a peaceful way, even though I’d argue there was nothing peaceful about what you did.
You’re strong. Probably the strongest person I’ve ever met. ”
He’s so earnest, all innocence and wide doe eyes.
I can’t help but be lethally swept up in his belief.
Fuck, that he can look at me like this. That he can say these things to me.
I stare down at his thin fingers knotted in my thick, calloused ones, all of them cradled against the cloud-soft silk of his pink shirt.
A glance up the hall tells me that while we’re less public here, we’re far from alone. Staff still rush in and out, a few casting curious looks our way.
I angle my body to block Alexo from their sight. “I want to kiss you again,” I tell him.
His breath rips from him, eyes darkening. “You do, huh?”
“Very much.”
His thumb moves against mine, a maddeningly tender motion. “Not for the cameras?”
“Not for the cameras.”
A smile.
He nods. Desperately, his rose-gold hair bobbing around him, he parts his lips to utter a throaty, anxious “Please.”