Chapter Fifteen
Delilah
“I don’t see why I can’t get in today,” I say in that sugary voice I save for customer service and cult leaders. “If you could just patch me through to Rhys.”
“I’ve explained, Miss Darling,” says Satan’s receptionist, dragging out a sigh.
The kind that implies I’m being difficult when I’m just trying to self-advocate in this cold, cruel world of gatekeeping secretaries and emotionally unavailable therapists.
“He is fully booked. There was a cancellation tomorrow. Would you like that appointment?”
Would I like to spiral for another twenty-four hours? Would I like to freeball my mental illness while Benji’s ghost-hands grope my coping mechanisms?
“No, I’d like you to let him decide if he wants to speak to me. You know. Like a therapist who cares whether or not his patient is experiencing an erotic psychospiritual emergency?”
“I’ve explained, Miss Darling,” she says, like I’m a toddler who’s asked where bees come from four times.
“Are you deliberately preventing me from speaking to him?”
“Would you like tomorrow at three,” she repeats, with the brittle edge of someone who absolutely wants me to say no and hang up forever.
I pause. Glare at nothing. Maybe growl. “Fine. Pencil me in. But I’d really appreciate it if you told him I called. Maybe a telemed. Or a… mental health mercy dash. Whatever you people do.”
“Come fifteen minutes early and bring your current…”
“Thank you!” I chirp, hanging up mid-sentence because we’re done here, eyebrow whore. Pretty sure that was the same taupe-bloused succubitch from the front desk who eye-fucked Rhys like she wanted to tongue-paint his esophagus.
Whatever. She’s officially on The List. Right under the barista who spelled my name Delilard.
Next call. The community art center. Because if I can’t be emotionally validated by Rhys, I will become his art. Nothing says stable healing arc like offering your nude body to strangers in a fluorescent-lit classroom.
The man who picks up sounds like he moonlights as a forest cryptid who critiques porn for brushstroke accuracy. Pleasant voice. Terrifying vibes. Possibly a lizard in a human costume.
“Ma’am, there’s no qualifications,” he says warmly answering my question. “All forms are art.”
That’s something men say when they’re hoping to get a blowjob under a painting of a pear.
“Sign me up for Friday,” I say.
“We do already have a model for the next two months,” he chuckles. “But they flake constantly. I can put you down as backup. How much notice would you need, Miss…?”
“Zero notice. It’s Miss Darling. Delilah P. Darling. P as in punctual or poses pretty. Just call me when Kira cancels.”
“Umm…” I hear him writing. “Your contact information. Did Kira refer you?”
“Excuse me? No. I referred myself. I’m an independent woman with great tits and zero shame,” I say and then rattle off my number.
“I just assumed you needed variety. Not another twiggy waif with clavicles you could play xylophone on. Y’know, curves?
Hips? Renaissance fairy energy? I bring body and presence.
Like if a Botticelli angel had depression and a grudge. Not everyone wants stick-bug energy.”
“Got it,” he says. Then pauses. “Didn’t you register to attend as a student?” Another pause. “Yes. You’re on the list to draw.”
“Oh. Right.”
There’s a moment of silence that feels like a static-charged elevator ride.
“If Kira cancels, I’ll pose instead,” I declare. “I’m very flexible. And not just in the ‘I can hook my legs over someone’s shoulders and still make eye contact’ way. Not that you asked. But I feel like you’re picturing it now. So. Enjoy that.”
“I… see,” he replies carefully. Then, as if trying to reassert authority, “I look forward to seeing you.”
Wait.
“Regardless of your clothing situation,” he adds with a very suspicious calm.
Oh. Oh my God. That was a flirt. That was so a flirt.
Fucking pervert.
I thank him and hang up and take a cleansing breath.
I don’t have time to spiral about Margo’s HOA-fueled reign of poolside terror, or Kira’s whole “nude muse who maybe gives Rhys tantric back pain” vibe, or whatever fresh shade Office Bitch With the Weird Eyebrows is serving at the front desk like it’s Satan’s DMV.
No.
Today’s about Jett.
The man too pissed to want me and too disciplined to snap.
Which is exactly why I’m going to crack him open like a glow stick and dance in the radioactive fallout.
And technically, technically, today was supposed to be all about him. But since he didn’t have the common fucking courtesy to tell me to fuck off like a regular emotionally constipated man-child, I don’t feel bad about spending his entire morning trying to mindfuck Rhys instead.
Anyway. Now it’s Jett time.
I throw my gym bag on the bed and unzip it with the reverence of a witch opening her grimoire.
Inside: Pink boxing gloves custom-painted skulls with little glitter bows, because I’m an apex predator and a princess.
Fingerless lifting gloves because I like the way they make me look like I’m about to punch a cop or give a very intense handjob. Violent Barbie couture.
A sweat towel. Pink. Soft. Also skulls. Smells like strawberry lip gloss.
The outfit is scientifically engineered for maximum psychic damage.
The shorts are hot pink, and slutty enough to make eye contact with God every time I bend over, so high you could see my sins and maybe my cervix. The top is not a shirt. It’s a bra trying to cosplay as a workout tank pretending to be innocent.
It’s not.
I’m not.
Jett knows.
I sit at the mirror and start war paint.
Foundation, because I’m not letting my trauma pores breathe today. Concealer to erase every bad choice I’ve ever made. Liner winged and wicked, sharp enough to send a cease and desist. Lip gloss, plumping, cherry flavored, evil. It’s the kind that tingles like rejection and broken boundaries.
Last is the statement. The sin.
The hat.
It doesn’t match anything. It’s black. Worn. Smells like motorcycle exhaust and aggression. It’s his.
The one I took from his saddlebag. Thee one he definitely noticed was missing. The one I’m wearing like a trophy and a middle finger.
I sniff it, of course. Gently. Because I may be a pervert but I have manners. Then I pull it onto my head. My pink tips peek out under the brim.
It’s not aesthetic. It’s not cute. It’s psychological warfare.
Bait.
Because Jett is not the type to flirt. He’s not the type to play games. He’s the type to brood, scowl, and strangle his own erection out of spite.
But me in his hat?
Me, glammed to hell, bouncing around in pink and cherry lip gloss. That’s gonna grab him by the throat, and maybe he’ll return the favor, right before he shoves me against the bag and fucks the crazy out of me.
An hour later I’m there. IronBlood Athletics.
Jett’s motorcycle is parked around back, guarding the building. Big, dark, throbbing with threat.
God, same.
I park beside it like I won’t be the reason his mirrors are adjusted a quarter inch too high tomorrow.
The walk around the gym gives me a chance to breathe, or pace, depending on your perspective. Inside, the scent of sweat and metal hits me first, followed immediately by Kevin and his goddamn fog of Old Spice and middle-aged yearning.
“Miss Darling,” he says, way too pleased, eyes sweeping me up like he’s trying to memorize the layout of sin.
I get it, I am dressed for war.
“Kev,” I smile like I’m being filmed for court later. “I’m here to punch things with Jett.”
My eyes are already hunting for him, and then, there. Across the mats, leaning against the wall, auditioning for the brooding vengeance lead in my brain’s personal porn remake of The Punisher. Arms crossed. That fucking chest. That thigh popped out like a problem.
And when his eyes land on me, I swear to God my clit tries to levitate.
He looks me over with the kind of heat that makes sinners squirm.
Then… ice. Rage. He sees the hat.
His jaw ticks.
Mine drops.
I laugh. Not a cute giggle, a gremlin cackle. I can’t help it.
He’s pissed.
Good. I’ve been edging myself on his restraint since Friday.
I reach out and squeeze Kevin’s bicep on impulse.
Jett’s eyes snap to the contact.
“Good to see you, Kev,” I say sweet as venom, and then I bounce across the mats toward Jett, full of caffeine and sexual delusions.
“I brought my own gloves,” I chirp. “What should I hit first? Or do you want to stand behind me and ‘adjust my stance’ while making questionable noises into my hair?”
Jett doesn’t move for a second. Then he leans in, slow, like he’s trying to decide if snapping my neck would be more satisfying than snapping my thong.
He breathes against my ear. “Delilah.”
“Yes, Jett,” I whisper, already wet.
“You touch my bike again,” he says, voice low and dark and obscene, “and I’ll hang you from the handlebars and fuck you until the sound of an engine makes you flinch.”
I whimper. “Okay but what if we pretend I already did, and skip straight to the consequences?”
His hand lifts. Not fast. Just a promise. For one glorious second I think he’s going to wrap it around my throat and push me against the wall in front of God and Kevin and the smelly man at the squat rack.
But then the door swings open.
Jett’s whole body snaps toward it. From wrath to holy fucking apocalypse in half a second flat.
I step back just as the man walking in tries to fill the room with something like dominance. He’s stocky, overly bulked, like masculinity’s a sport and he’s benched in every category.
“You’re gonna have to leave, boy,” he says, staring straight at Jett.
Oh. Oh this dumbass wants to die today. I stare at him, wondering if we’re on a prank show.
The testosterone in here could pickle eggs and melt tampons. And of course I strut right into the middle of this dick-measuring contest in real time.
“Chad,” Jett says flatly, all jaw and thunderclouds. “You shouldn’t be here. My lawyer…”
“My lawyer says I don’t have to eat my gym membership just because you’re a fucking animal,” the man spits back. He jerks a thumb toward the door. “Go wait in the parking lot like a good little rage case. Hundred yards, you know the drill.”
Chad. Ohhh. This must be the human lawsuit responsible for Jett’s mandatory court-ordered self-reflection. The rage gremlin origin story.
I step into the ring with all the grace of a blunt-force trauma. “Excuse me, Chet?”
“It’s Chad,” the man grunts.
“Right. Brad. Brent. Biff. I’m not great with the names of future restraining orders. Anyway, I’ve got a session with Jett, so why don’t you be a doll and give us a hundred yards, come back in an hour. Maybe after you’ve Googled how to apologize for being shaped like a neck vein.”
His eyes cut to me like I’m the problem in this scenario, which is rich coming from a man whose entire personality is pre-workout powder and poor impulse control.
“Listen, tramp,” he starts.
My bag hits the floor. So do my scruples.
Round one, bitch.
I’m already stepping in, swinging on instinct, fingernails first, lawsuit second.
Except…
Jett wraps an arm around my waist like I’m an angry toddler mid-meltdown in the frozen food aisle. One second I’m feral. The next, I’m airborne.
“Called me what, you motherfucker?” I hiss from midair, still swinging.
“Delilah,” Jett grits, voice sharp with warning, but not at me. Oh no, he’s holding me back the same way you hold back a lit match from a leaking gas can.
Kevin pokes his head out from behind the front desk. “Hey, hey, Chad, maybe cool it down. Jett, buddy, can you step outside for a bit? I’ll work with Delilah today.”
Jett doesn’t put me down. “You gonna behave?” he asks, voice low and right against my neck.
I twist in his hold to glare at him. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
His breath brushes my ear. “He’s not worth it, princess.”
And that is when it hits me.
He’s not boiling. He’s not clenching his fists or snarling like usual. Jett, who bench-presses grudges and probably fucks like he’s trying to break the mattress is… calm. For me.
God help me, I like it.