Chapter 4 #2
But I could hear Jude working too. Could track his progress by the screams and by the phones that came out to record when he appeared.
He’d added thigh holsters to his costume since last shift, more buckles and straps that caught the light and framed all the right places, and I felt a spike of irritation because of course he had.
He was always one step ahead, always making sure he was the one people remembered.
By the time nine o’clock hit, I was wound so tight and ready I was worried I’d explode.
I entered our designated fight zone from the east, scanning the crowd until I spotted him on the scaffolding.
He was backlit by red floods, looking down at the chaos below like a predator surveying prey, and something in my chest tightened.
He was beautiful like this. Dangerous, and confident, and completely in his element.
I wanted to shake him. Wanted to grab him and demand to know why he looked at me like an enemy when we could be so much more than that.
Instead, I ran.
I vaulted over a barrier that wasn’t part of our normal route, changing the blocking on purpose because I knew it would piss him off. The crowd scattered and screamed, and I felt the exact moment Jude spotted me, felt his attention lock on like a target.
He jumped down to meet me, and we collided mid-air.
That was his own form of improvising, and the unexpected impact drove the air from my lungs.
The momentum carried us both into a roll that ended with him on top, forearm across my throat.
The tourists were losing their minds, but all I could focus on was the weight of him, the heat of his body through layers of tactical gear, the way his pupils were blown wide.
And that he was straddling me. All I wanted to do was rock up against him and show him how much I liked him up there, legs spread on either side of my hips. It was a good look for him.
“Showing off?” he said under his breath.
My hands were on his waist, gripping harder than necessary. “Just getting started.”
Then I rolled us, and suddenly I had him under me, and this was still choreography except for the way his hips shifted up, and I felt it everywhere.
The next thirty seconds were a blur of controlled violence, trading positions while the crowd chanted encouragement, and when I got him in a headlock and his body went tense against mine, I had to remind myself we were in public.
“Too slow,” I said directly into his ear. I felt him shudder, and my mind and body wanted that to mean more than it did.
He dropped his weight and slipped the hold faster than I expected, sweeping my legs out from under me. I went down hard, and he followed, a knee between my thighs and a hand fisted in my vest, and we were breathing in sync, staring at each other while the crowd screamed around us.
“Predictable,” he said.
I opened my mouth to respond, but the music shifted. The low droning bass cut out only to be replaced by the sharper, more frenetic beat. It was our cue to separate.
For a second, neither of us moved. His hand stayed twisted in my vest, and I was acutely aware of everywhere we were touching. His eyes searched mine, and I wanted to ask what, wanted to know if he felt this too or if I was sinking in this void, totally alone.
Then he released me and rolled to his feet in one fluid motion, disappearing into the red lights before I could even stand.
I pushed myself up slowly, panting, and tried to shake off whatever the hell that was.
The crowd was still roaring, phones up and recording, and I forced myself back into character.
Stalked toward a group of teenagers who scrambled backward with delighted shrieks, cursed Jude’s character and vowed to find him by midnight as my script demanded
But my focus was shot. I could feel the ghost of Jude’s weight on me, the heat of his breath.
Yeah. I was in real trouble.
***
The night continued in the same vein. Every fight sequence was more intense than the last, both of us performing at our peak, going more and more off script as we chased bigger reactions.
During the midnight sequence, I pinned him against the cargo container and let my hand slide down his side, over his ribs, his hip, in a way that definitely wasn’t HR approved.
His eyes went dark, and for a moment, I thought he might call me on it right there and then.
Instead, he retaliated during the one a.m. fight by getting me on my stomach with his full body weight on top of me, his mouth so close to the back of my neck that I felt his breath, hot and unsteady.
We were playing a dangerous game, and now that we’d started, I didn’t know how to stop.
By the two a.m. closing sequence, I was exhausted and wired and fairly certain I’d lost my mind. The competition had been close—both of us getting incredible crowd reactions, multiple requests for photos, and all the other performers were talking about how intense we’d been tonight.
But I couldn’t tell who’d won. I didn’t care anymore, because the prize was breakfast with Jude, and I’d realized somewhere around midnight that I’d take any excuse to spend time with him outside of work.
I was in the changing room, stripped down to my tank top and trying to scrub the makeup off my face, when Jude walked in. He looked as wrecked as I felt, hair disheveled, eyes still outlined in smeared black, though the ghostly white paint was streaked and running down the long line of his throat.
“So,” I said, because someone had to break the silence. “Who won?”
He tossed his makeup wipe in the trash and turned to face me. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
Yes. No. I didn’t know anymore.
“You tell me. You’re the one who made the bet.”
“You’re the one who suggested breakfast.”
Fair point. “So, we call it a draw. Both of us buy breakfast.”
“That’s not how bets work.”
“Then give me another way to settle it.” I moved closer, drawn by something I couldn’t name. “Right now. How do we decide who won?”
It was such a dumb thing to do. I didn’t need to keep pushing this—it was his dumb bet in the first place—but I couldn’t get it out of my head now. Breakfast with Jude. It was in there, living rent-free and worming in further.
I was standing too close, close enough to see the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. I actually thought he might close the distance, might stop dancing around whatever this thing was between us and make a move. Instead, he said the last thing I expected.
“Arm wrestling.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“You want to settle it or not?”
It was such a Jude solution—competitive, physical, with clear rules and a definitive winner. Part of me wanted to laugh. Part of me wanted to grab him and kiss him until he stopped trying to turn everything into a contest. Another part of me wanted to remind him how much stronger I was.
Instead, I said, “Fine. Let’s go.”
We sat across from each other on the bench, and when our hands locked together, palm to palm, I felt it like an electric shock.
This was supposed to be simple. A test of brute strength.
But the way he was looking at me, the way our knees knocked together in the narrow space, made it feel like something else entirely.
“On three,” I said.
“One,” he counted.
“Two,” I continued, tightening my grip.
“Three.”
We both pushed, and it was immediately clear this would take a while. We were evenly matched, and what I had on him strength-wise, he had in the stubborn unwillingness to yield. My arm shook with effort, and his jaw was clenched tight, and neither of us was gaining ground.
A minute passed. Then two. My shoulder was burning, but I refused to give up, refused to be the one who broke first. His eyes were locked on mine, dark and intense, and I realized with sudden clarity that this wasn’t about winning anymore.
It was about not letting go.
It meant that the rules could be broken.
My free hand came up and gripped his bicep, thumb pressing into muscle, at the same time his free hand found my thigh, fingers digging in. We were both breathing hard, faces inches apart, and I couldn’t tell if we were still arm wrestling or if this had turned into something else.
Our hands trembled in the middle, still locked together, and I made a decision.
I let go.
He almost toppled over with the force of how hard he’d been pushing.
“Fuck this,” I said, standing up before I could do something stupid like lean across the bench and distract him with a kiss. “I’m buying breakfast. You win. Happy?”
His expression was pure confusion. “What?”
“You win.” I was already moving to my locker, grabbing my street clothes, needing distance. “Meet me at Frank’s in twenty minutes if you’re hungry.”
I left before he could respond and before I admitted that I’d thrown the match just so I wouldn’t have to see him lose.