Chapter 8 Kit
KIT
“So, what do you think?” my stepdad asks, admiring his handiwork.
“It’s amazing, thank you,” I gush, unable to tear my eyes away from the pole standing proud in the middle of my hardwood floor.
Lucien even splurged for the gold finish, a step up from the silver ones we use at the Student Union.
He was insistent that it would match my décor better, and he’s right. It looks beautiful.
“Well, go on then, Kitty. Aren’t you going to take it for a spin?” Lucien chuckles at his own bad joke, and I join in heartily because this man just installed a top-of-the-line pole in his house for me without batting an eyelid. He even tested it with his own bodyweight, for god’s sake.
My muscles clench in anticipation as a hundred different routines beg for attention in my brain.
I can just imagine letting myself go as I twist around the pole.
Still, I hold back. Yes, Lucien is beyond cool for letting me experiment with my latest endeavour, but does he really want a front-row seat as I figure this out?
Thankfully, it seems that Lucien can read minds, or at least body language.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “I know how private you get about your choreography. Did I say that right? Is that what you call it?”
“Thanks, Lucien,” I say quietly, still not wanting to take my eyes off my shiny new toy. “I promise I won’t be too loud.”
“I’ve told you before, Kit, it’s fine. You just let your creativity flow. Remember, I’m happy to do this for you. Spoiling my children is my life’s greatest pleasure.”
I never know how to react when Lucien says things like that, so I give him an awkward, but heartfelt, one-armed hug and bury my head in his chest in a vain attempt to hide the embarrassment glowing on my face.
Lucien laughs, gripping me tight around my shoulders before pushing me back towards my new pole. “Now, your mum and I are going out for dinner tonight, but Damian should be in. Just give him a shout if you run into any trouble.”
He shuts the door quietly behind him, and then, finally, I’m safe to let out the squeal that’s been bubbling inside me for the past hour. I barely have the presence of mind to stop myself from hugging the thing like an idiot.
My very own pole, installed in my enormous bedroom, in the middle of a custom sprung floor, all bought for me so that I can dance away to my heart’s content.
I’ve not been rich long enough to take this for granted, so I quickly count my blessings, thank the lord that Mum was Lucien’s type, and run into my huge walk-in wardrobe to pull out the pair of hot pants I bought for this exact occasion.
Seriously, what is my life now?
I’ve been feeling a bit low since my shopping trip with Damian.
I can get a bit… maudlin… when I drink, and the feeling’s outstaying its welcome.
I thought I’d come up with the perfect plan to see if Damian was starting to feel something other than brotherly affection towards me.
It was foolproof: buy some sexy clothes and study Damian’s reaction.
If I’m greeted by a crinkled nose, then I’m back into unrequited love territory.
But a sneaky boner? Well, you can’t argue with that kind of evidence.
Unfortunately, it seems I’m not that good at reading other people, especially when the reaction isn’t as clear-cut as a tented pair of jeans.
It’s probably why I give people like Will and the apparently sleazy waiter the time of day.
Yes, Damian was tongue-tied when faced with my new look, but is that because he thought my ass looked great?
Or because I randomly showed up to breakfast looking like an extra from Rocky Horror with no prior warning?
In other words, the jury’s still out on the whole is-Damian-hot-for-me situation. And the longer this drags on, the more my heart is going to hurt when my stepbrother inevitably proves to be firmly in the still-straight camp.
It’s the hope that kills you.
At least now I have my newest hobby to distract me. I slowly walk around the pole, my fingers skimming its smooth surface.
Now, where to start? As I think, I grip the metal tightly and lift my feet from the floor, gliding around twice before landing back on my tiptoes.
Damn, this is incredible. I know I should probably start small, work up to the more complicated tricks, but it’s hard to think rationally when excitement is jumping inside my muscles. The only sensible decision I make is to quickly stretch before trying anything too death-defying.
Then, I plant my hands firmly at shoulder and waist height, swing my leg back, and kick forward. The impetus flips me over, and I hit what feels like a perfect split before gravity gets annoyed and pulls me back down to finish on one foot.
Hmm, not bad. My landing’s a bit insecure, but it’s not the worst start.
I practice a couple more times, focused on controlling my arc at the top and finishing more confidently.
After ten minutes, my biceps are sore, and my abs are burning, but I’ve got it.
Or, at least, I think I have. There’s only one way to know for sure.
Quickly, I set my phone up on my vanity table, press record, and hit the trick one last time so that I can watch myself back in slow motion to check my technique.
I almost don’t recognise myself. Sometimes I forget I’m not that scrawny fifteen-year-old anymore.
My lithe muscles work under my pale skin, rippling as I twist into an impossible position around the pole.
The black shorts were a good choice, simple, but effective when my twinkling fairy lights reflect like stars across the smooth material.
Not to sound big-headed, but I look good.
Okay, so my foot resembles a claw, and it’s giving me the ick, but that’s an easy fix. Otherwise, I look fucking impressive.
So much so, I save the clip and send it to my old school friend, Jack.
He’s scrappy as fuck, and still lives in The Towers, an almost derelict block of forgotten flats in the city, but when you’re one of his chosen few, you’ll see his heart is pure gold.
Before Damian, he and his twin sister, Jane, were my only friends, and probably the reason I wasn’t beaten up on a daily basis at my old school.
The twins were the only people I’ve kept in contact with since Mum met Lucien Hansel, and Jack especially loves to see random snapshots of my day so he can make fun of my ‘fancy new life.’
Jack: Holy shit! Is that in your room? Daddy Hansel is really spoiling you.
Me: Ew, wash your mind out. But yes, Lucien put it up for me today. What do you think?
Jack: Okay, weird. But you rich folks gotta spend your piles of money somehow, I guess. Did he buy your mum a matching one? I had a good day too, thanks for asking. I lifted an MP3 player on the tube earlier. Can you believe it? An MP3 player! It’s so old I can probably sell it to a museum.
Ah, yes. Did I mention Jack moonlights as a petty thief? And by moonlights, I mean it’s his main source of income at the present time.
Me: Stop being a dick and tell me how great I am. Watch it again, I’m upside down!
Jack: Congratulations. You look like a really good stripper. I knew that a degree would get you somewhere.
Me: Well, that’s not nice. You’re meant to tell me how incredible I am.
Jack: If you want someone to be nice to you, stop yapping at me and go show Damian. I’m off to work. Stay safe! X
I snicker at my phone. Jack and Damian get on okay, but without me around as a translator, all they’d be able to talk about is football. Which is a no-go anyway, because Damian supports Chelsea and Jack is a die-hard Crystal Palace fan.
He might have a point, though. Perhaps my pole video will work where my wardrobe glow-up has failed. Surely if Damian were even a little Kit-curious, the image of my legs spread in the air would trigger some kind of reaction.
Mind made up, I throw a white hoodie over my bare chest, stuff my phone in my pocket, and go off in search of Damian. And judging by the yelled obscenities coming from the den, he’s not going to be hard to find.
“Oh, come on, Ref!” Damian screams at the television from his favourite, oversized beanbag. “That was clearly a penalty.”
“Clearly,” I snort from the doorway.
Damian jumps so hard that he almost rolls off the pile of beans. “Kit, since when were you home?”
“Um, since always,” I laugh, dragging my own bag next to his. “I’m never out on a Wednesday.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you come and see me when I got back from my lecture?” Damian gets that kicked-puppy look in his big brown eyes, so I slump sideways in my chair and bring myself as close to him as I can without actually falling into his lap.
“I’m sorry, I was with your dad. We were setting up that new pole he got me.”
“Oh, yeah?” Damian asks, finally pausing whatever game’s on the T.V.
“Yeah, want to see?” The question’s rhetorical. I pull out my phone, unlock the screen, and thrust it into Damian’s hand.
At first, he does nothing but stare fixedly at the stilled image of the pole in my room. I roll my eyes before leaning over to tap the centre of the screen.
It’s only a short clip, barely twenty seconds long once I’m actually in frame, but as I watch Damian’s eyes grow wide, it feels like it lasts an eternity. A faint blush creeps out from beneath his black T-shirt, up his neck and across his tanned cheeks. Is he… embarrassed?
“Um—” Damian gulps.
My heart starts to beat out of my chest. “Hang on, watch it again. Looks good, doesn’t it? The pole doesn’t even wobble.”
What am I saying? It’s attached to my floor and ceiling. Why would it wobble? Luckily, Damian doesn’t register my transparent excuse to get his eyes back on my body.
With unsteady fingers, he taps the screen again, his eyes glued to the pole like he’s actually trying to judge its structural integrity.
I wish I knew what he was thinking. Does he like it?
Does he hate it? I feel his body stiffen next to mine as past-me flips into the air, my legs fanning around the pole in my new hot pants.
The view is flawless. Everything is on display, from my stretched toes to my strained muscles.
I see power, confidence, a pride in my body that I hope will bleed into more of my work. Damn, I’m proud of this.
Video-me walks over to the phone and, in a final flash of abs, reaches out to stop the recording. And still, Damian sits in silence.
“Well, do you like it?”
Damian’s eyes are pulled from the screen, his mouth hanging open as his breath comes in uneven pants. But instead of putting words to whatever he’s thinking, he slams my phone back into my chest and flees.
Too many emotions crash into me at once, each clamouring for space as I stare in horror at the empty beanbag beside me.
Shock, fear, confusion. And shame. Most of all, shame.
Did I really just force Damian to watch me flit around a pole half-naked?
Did I make him so uncomfortable in his own home that he actually had to leave the room?
And, for what? To prove to my delusional self that not only is he suddenly not-so-straight, but in fact secretly in love with me?
I’m so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Goosebumps crawl down my bare legs as a sickening chill ghosts over my exposed skin. I stretch my hoodie out of shape and haul it over my knees.
Great, I broke my stepbrother. I literally sent the man running in the opposite direction. And he pulled my heart right out along with him.