Chapter 8 #2
By noon, I was at the grocery store, wandering the aisles like a lost tourist. I didn’t need anything. My fridge was full. But I grabbed beer anyway, and chips I wouldn’t eat, and spent twenty minutes staring at the protein bars without actually seeing them.
Get it together.
I couldn’t stop replaying it, though. The chase. The way Jude had looked at me when we’d circled each other in Riley’s set. The heat in his eyes, the promise of violence and sex all tangled up together. The way my body had responded, going hard and desperate just from being near him.
I paid for the shit I didn’t need and drove home.
Drank one of the beers. Then another as I tried to watch TV.
But I couldn’t focus. Everything reminded me of him.
The tactical vest draped over the back of my couch.
The bruises on my ribs from where he’d tackled me.
The faint ache in my knuckles from when I’d all but punched the wall next to his head while fucking him.
You’re pathetic.
I was. I knew it. I’d been crushing on Jude since before I’d even applied to Ridgeway, and now that I’d actually had him, it was only worse. Because now I knew what he felt like. Knew how he sounded when he came. Knew he wanted me just as bad, even if he tried to fucking hide it.
And I had no clue what to do about it.
By the time I needed to leave for work, my nerves were shot. I grabbed my gear bag and headed out, telling myself I could be professional. Could work next to Jude and not make it weird.
Surely even I could survive a six-hour shift without doing something stupid.
***
The employee lot was already half-full when I arrived.
I scanned for Jude’s car automatically, found it in its usual spot, and felt my stomach drop.
He was here. Early as always. Which meant I’d have to face him in the changing room surrounded by other performers, and we’d have to pretend we were just coworkers who happened to have explosive sexual tension and unresolved feelings.
Perfect. Great.
Everything was fine.
I grabbed my bag and headed inside, taking the long route through the back tunnels because I needed an extra minute to get my head together. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in harsh white, and I could hear voices echoing from the changing room.
I could do this. Professional. Calm. Not at all thinking about the way he’d felt inside or the sounds he’d made or the hate in his eyes afterwards.
I pushed open the changing room door and immediately found him.
Jude was at his locker, already half-dressed in his tactical pants, pulling on his tank top. The bite marks on his throat were still visible, faded but there, and when he turned at the sound of the door, his eyes met mine.
Neither of us moved. The room was full of other performers, but they all disappeared. There was just him, looking at me like he hadn’t slept either, like the past two days had been as brutal for him as they’d been for me.
Then someone called his name, and the moment broke. He turned away to answer, and I headed to my own locker before anyone could notice me staring.
***
Our first scheduled fight wasn’t until nine tonight, which gave me two hours to pretend I was fine.
I scared the shit out of a group of college kids, posed for photos with some fans who recognized me from TikTok, and tried not to think about how empty this all felt without the edge Jude and I had before we’d complicated everything.
When nine o’clock struck, I took my position and waited.
We collided right on cue, but something was different, even accounting for our fluctuating encounters.
He grabbed me harder than usual, fingers digging into my vest, and when I shoved him back, he didn’t let go.
We went through the choreography, trading positions and blows, but there was a desperation underneath it that hadn’t been there before.
Like we were both trying to say something through the violence that we couldn’t say with words.
When I ended up on top of him, I threw caution to the wind and pinned his wrists above his head.
Jude’s hips shifted up, and I felt him hard against my thigh.
The crowd was screaming, phones out—not that they could see anything important—but my world had narrowed to the way he was glaring at me with fire in his eyes.
I wanted to kiss him and then fuck him into the pavement until he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
“Get off me.”
His voice was angry, the words catching in his throat. But his cock told a different story.
I leaned down, close enough that only he could hear me over the screaming crowd. “Make me.”
His eyes flashed. Something wild and violent flickered across his face, and I thought he might actually do it. Might flip us. Pin me. Take what he wanted right here in front of everyone.
Instead, he bucked his hips up hard, throwing me off balance. I rolled with it, letting momentum carry me backward, and he was on me in an instant. His knee jammed between my thighs, his hand fisted in my vest, dragging me up to my feet by sheer force.
“You want to play games?”
Unfortunately, or maybe thankfully, the music swelled, marking our cue to separate, and like good little puppets, we moved back. We stood there, chests heaving, glaring at each other while the crowd went absolutely feral around us.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I do.”
He shoved me backward into the fog and then disappeared into the strobe lights.
***
The rest of the shift was torture.
During the midnight show, he got me against the chain-link fence and his hand slipped under my vest, fingers splaying across my ribs. That was definitely not part of the choreography. Just him touching me because he could, because he wanted to, because he was just as fucked up about this as I was.
I retaliated in kind, getting him in a headlock and letting my mouth brush against his ear. “Still thinking about it,” I whispered. “About you bent over, taking my cock.”
He made a sound that definitely wasn’t performance, and I felt it all the way down to my bones.
By the closing fight, I was ready to either fight him for real or fuck him like an animal right here in front of everyone.
I stripped the makeup off faster than usual, wiping black and white streaks down my neck, not caring that I looked like hell. Other performers were still chatting, taking their time, but I needed to get out before I did something stupid.
I left my costume on, grabbed my keys and bag and headed out into the night.
The staff parking lot was dark, lit only by weak overhead lamps that did shit-all to penetrate the October fog rolling in off the highway. My car sat where I’d left it, and I’d made it three steps before I heard boots on asphalt behind me.
“Ash.”
I stopped. Turned.
Jude walked toward me, still in full costume, vest unbuckled and hanging open over his tank top. Black greasepaint smudged across his cheekbone where he’d rubbed it. He looked furious. Looked hungry.
Looked exactly how I felt.
“What.”
It wasn’t really a question. More of a challenge.
He closed the distance between us until I could smell the sweat and fog machine smoke clinging to his skin. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up, and something in my chest cracked wide open.
“Get in the car.”
My pulse kicked up, rebellion flaring. “No.”
That was the wrong answer. He yanked me forward by the vest until our faces were inches apart. His breath ghosted across my lips, and I went hard so fast it made my head spin.
“You’ve been eye-fucking me all night,” he said, voice low and rough. “Touching me. Whispering shit in my ear. You think I’m just going to let you drive away?”
Yes. No. Maybe. Fuck.
I couldn’t think with him this close. Couldn’t breathe. My hands came up automatically, fingers curling into his vest, and I didn’t know if I was pushing him away or pulling him closer.
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Liar.”
He shoved me backward. My spine hit the car door hard enough to rattle my teeth, and then he was right there again, crowding me against the metal, one hand braced above my head.
“Get in the fucking car, Ash. Back seat.”
It wasn’t a request.
My hand found the handle behind me, and the door swung open. I stumbled backward into the cramped space, and Jude followed me in like a starving predator finally getting a meal.
The space was immediately too small. My sedan wasn’t built for two grown men and all the tactical gear we were still wearing. But the second the door closed, Jude was on me.
His mouth crashed into mine before I could say anything. Before I could think. Before I could talk myself out of this because we were doing it again, in a fucking parking lot where anyone could see, where it meant nothing except bodies and heat and the desperate need to get off.
I kissed him back anyway. Hard and hungry. My hands fisted in his vest as his tongue pushed past my lips, and I opened for him because I always would. Because I’d been wanting this since before I even knew his fucking name, and now that I’d had him once, I couldn’t stop.
I didn’t want to stop.
His teeth caught my bottom lip, biting down, and I groaned into his mouth. The sound was pathetic. Needy. Everything I was trying not to be, but he swallowed it anyway and kissed me deeper, one hand tangling in my hair while the other pushed bruises onto the skin of my hip.
But it still wasn’t enough for me.
This wasn’t what I wanted. Not really. I wanted him, yeah, but I wanted more than stolen moments in backseats and dark corridors. I wanted him to look at me like I mattered. I wanted us to share mornings and coffee and lazy afternoons where we didn’t have to pretend we hated each other.
But Jude didn’t want that. He wanted to fuck me and walk away—all the thrill without the complications.
So take what you can get.