Chapter 14 #2
“You better. People are showing up specifically for you two and leaving disappointed.” Parker’s gaze bounced between us, searching for something we weren’t giving him. “Take five. Whatever’s going on, handle it. I can’t have my top draw bombing because of personal drama.”
And then he left us there in the corridor, alone with each other.
The machinery hummed, and over it, I could hear the distant, distorted carnival music of Riley’s zone.
I had to say something. Anything.
“We should talk.” The words scraped out.
“Pass.”
“Jude.”
“I said no.” He pushed off the wall.
My response was automatic—my hand shot out, fingers closing around his forearm to pull him back to me.
Jude twisted away so violently I stumbled back a step.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
I held my hands up in a position of surrender as something acidic burned the back of my throat. “Right. Understood.”
The silence stretched between us like a wound that wouldn’t close. Every instinct screamed at me to reach for him, to bridge the gap, to pull him against me and feel his heartbeat against mine. My fingers curled into fists at my sides.
“So what now?” My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. “We just keep pretending nothing happened?”
“Nothing did happen.” Jude’s tone was ice, sharp enough to draw blood. “We fucked a few times. It’s done.”
The casual cruelty of it stole my breath. “You’re such a liar.”
“Believe what you want.”
“I know you felt something.” I hated how desperate I sounded, how close to breaking. “You wouldn’t be this much of an asshole if you didn’t.”
His laugh was bitter. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“I know you’re terrified.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I know that scares you more than anything.”
“You think too highly of yourself.”
“Then why can’t you even look at me?”
Jude’s head snapped toward me, dark eyes blazing. The force of his stare hit like punch to the face. “There. Happy now?”
Everything in me wanted to close the distance. To grab his face and kiss him until we both forgot why we were fighting and he forgot we did nothing that intimate. Until nothing existed except us. My hands ached with the effort of staying still.
“No.”
No, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t want Jude to look at me like that. I wanted him to look my way and smile, or gasp and moan as I took him apart.
“Yeah, well, you only have yourself to blame for that.”
Jude’s jaw worked. For a second, something raw flickered across his face. It vanished just as fast. “Now, apparently, we’re professionals. Let’s act like it.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
Jude flinched like I’d struck him.
Good. I wanted it to land and hurt. I wanted him to feel a fraction of what he’d carved out of me.
“Fuck you, Ash.”
He turned and walked away.
***
The music cued.
I stepped into the smoke, letting it swallow me whole, and let the strobe lights wash over me. They cut the darkness into fragments. Shadow. Light. Shadow. Light.
The crowd pressed against the barriers; phones raised like offerings to gods they didn’t believe in.
Professionals.
I could do professional.
The choreography rolled through muscle memory. Hit the mark. Crouch. Stalk. Let them see the dead-eyed predator in the leather and buckles, with his demonic paint smeared across his cheekbones.
I’d arrived in the designated fight zone early, so I leaned into my character, hyping the crowd up and growling threats and dark promises to kill my adversary.
Then Jude emerged from the opposite side.
Even pissed off, even with this chasm carved between us, my body responded.
The way he moved. It was fucking sinful.
Fluid and dangerous, his deceptively lean frame coiled with controlled violence.
The gel in his hair caught the strobes, making him look like something carved from shadows and sharp edges.
I had to grit my teeth and remember that I was mad at him.
Our eyes met across the smoke, and the world narrowed.
We circled. The crowd existed somewhere beyond the pounding in my ears, their screams muffled and distant, but my focus was sharpened to a single point.
Him. Just him and only ever him. The set of his painted jaw.
The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers flexed against the buckles of his tactical vest as he taunted me.
You want professional? I’ll give you professional.
I lunged.
Jude dodged, spinning away. His boot scraped the concrete, and I followed, closing the distance. Our choreography had beats. Pauses. Moments for the audience to gasp and shriek and film. We ignored them all and pushed hard.
He came at me low. I blocked. His forearm connected with mine; the impact jarring up to my shoulder. I shoved him back. He caught himself against a prop wall, then launched forward again. We crashed together, grappling, and his fingers dug into my vest, hauling me sideways.
“Selling it hard, aren’t we?” Jude’s voice was gravel in my ear.
“Giving them their money’s worth.”
I twisted free, putting distance between us. My chest heaved. The smoke machines pumped harder, filling the zone with gray-white clouds that swirled in the colored lights. Red. Blue. Purple. Each flash painted Jude in a new shade of violence.
He stalked toward me, so I backed up, maintaining the gap.
I changed course just to fuck with him. I went right instead of left, and Jude’s eyes flashed as he adjusted.
We collided again, this time harder, and his shoulder drove into my chest. Air burst from my lungs as I grabbed his arm and used his momentum to swing him around, trapping him against me.
He’d always enjoyed it when I’d manhandled him like that.
“Fuck off.” His breath was hot against my cheek.
“Make me.”
We broke apart and circled. Jude’s hand moved to his belt, fingers curling around one of the prop weapons. It was a tactical knife, rubber and harmless except for the way he held it, like he actually wanted to use it.
It wasn’t something we’d properly practiced, but I grabbed my own and we squared off, blades raised.
We should have danced around each other, trading silly little jabs that were all for show and executed safely, but we’d never been good at doing what we should.
We threw all that rubbish out the window and collided.
Jude came in fast. I blocked and countered, but he ducked under my swing and drove his elbow up. I pivoted, but not fast enough, and the joint caught the corner of my jaw.
Pain exploded across my face.
My head snapped sideways, my mouth flooding with the taste of copper. I stumbled back two steps, my hand flying to my mouth and when I pulled my fingers away, they came back red. I spat, blood splashing the concrete between my boots.
The crowd fucking loved it. They thought it was part of the show. Fake blood, movie magic, and theatrical genius. Phones flashed, and someone shouted, “Holy shit! Fight!”
I looked up and saw Jude lower his knife. For a second, there was something in his expression that wasn’t fury. Shock, or maybe even remorse and concern. But then Jude was difficult to read even without the face paint, so it could have just as easily been satisfaction.
It didn’t matter because I’d never tell through the rage burning behind my ribs.
I launched myself at him, and we went down hard. My weight drove him into the ground, and his back hit the concrete with a sound that made my teeth ache. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I grabbed his collar, hauled him off the ground, and slammed him down again.
“Ash—”
I didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want his excuses or his deflections or whatever bullshit justification he’d conjured.
I wanted him to feel something. Wanted to crack that shell he wore so well, bring down the walls that kept him protected.
I wanted him exposed and vulnerable and in a space I could invade.
A place I could fill with myself and all the words he refused to say until I made him understand that some things were worth the risk.
That he was worth the risk.
Jude bucked beneath me. A wild twist got a leg between us and then he kicked. His foot caught me in the kidney, and I staggered backward, landing in a crouch. Jude rolled to his feet and slipped into a fighter’s stance.
We faced each other, both breathing hard, both beyond the script now.
The music shifted. Our cue to exit. Neither of us moved.
“You done?” Jude’s voice cut through the noise.
“Not even close.”
This wasn’t performance anymore.
I charged, and he met me halfway. We collided like freight trains. His fist drove into my ribs, and I returned the favor. Pain bloomed hot and immediate, but it felt good. Real and honest in a way nothing between us had ever been.
He grabbed my vest and tried to throw me, but I’d always been bigger and steadier than him.
Stronger, though I played it down and let him keep believing he was equal.
I locked my arms around his waist and lifted.
For a second he was suspended, his feet off the ground, every muscle straining as he thrashed.
Then I twisted, and we both went sprawling.
I took the brunt of it, still unwilling to really hurt him, and we hit the ground rolling. Smoke swirled around us, lit from below by the floor lights. Red washed over Jude’s face, painting him in shades of fury and something that I could convince myself looked like passion and desperation.
I pinned him with my forearm across his chest. My face inches from his.
“When are you gonna start being honest with yourself?” The words tore from my throat.
His eyes blazed. “I am honest.”
“Bullshit.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” He tried surging up against me, but I overpowered him with my size and kept him there.
“It could—”
“Just leave me alone!”
We were yelling now. The crowd probably couldn’t hear over the music, but they pressed closer to the barriers, feeding on the energy. I felt their hunger like a physical thing. They wanted violence. Drama. The spectacle of two people destroying each other.
They were getting it.
Jude’s hands fisted in my vest. For a heartbeat, I thought he might pull me down.
Close the final distance. Give in to this thing between us that we couldn’t name and couldn’t kill.
I’d never wanted anything so much in life as I wanted that.
Right here and in front of the world, I wanted him to make that decision to give us a chance and to bring us out of the shadows.
Instead, he shoved. Hard.
I let him. Rolled away and came up on my feet as he did the same. Blood still coated my tongue, and my jaw throbbed, and every breath pulled tight across my ribs where he’d connected.
I’d never felt more alive.
“Again.” I beckoned him forward.
Jude’s lip curled. He came at me.
We traded blows. Blocks. Counters. The scaffolding loomed to my right. I used it, swinging around the support beam to put metal between us. Jude vaulted over a prop crate. His boots hit the platform above my head.
I followed him up.
The scaffolding was narrow. Built for one person at a time during the normal routine. We made it work anyway, moving in that brutal dance we’d perfected. Up here, the smoke was thinner. The lights hit differently. I could see every detail of Jude’s face. The set of his jaw. The fire in his eyes.
God, he’s beautiful like this.
The thought hit me sideways. It was the wrong time and the wrong place, but, fuck; it was hard to shove it down and focus.
We reached the top platform. It wasn’t high, just ten feet off the ground, so we could be seen over the heads of the spectators to draw bigger crowds.
Jude grabbed me. I grabbed back, and we grappled at the edge, dangerously close to the barrier.
His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back.
My fingers dug into his shoulder, sliding towards his white-painted throat.
I wanted to feel it under my palm; feel his heartbeat racing like my own.
“Yield,” he growled.
“Fuck you.”
I broke his grip. Shoved him toward the ladder. He caught himself. Spun. We squared off one more time on the narrow platform, both of us breathing hard, both bleeding whatever this was from every pore.
The exit music cued again, louder this time. Our absolute last chance to end this before management came looking.
Jude’s eyes met mine. Then he moved backwards so fast towards the ladder that my racing heart skipped a beat. For a moment I thought he’d tripped—that he might fall—and I was already reaching for him to offer support.
His boots hit the top rung, and he descended fast and graceful as always. I followed, keen to forget that momentary flash of fear, and when I hit the ground, he took off toward the back exit.
Jude was running away from me.
The action ignited a deep-set, primitive need that ripped through my whole body. He was running, so I had to chase him down. I had to catch him and grab him and hold him fucking still for once in his life.
I had to claim him and make him mine.
I ran after him, through smoke and screaming guests.
The zone boundaries blurred, and I didn’t care.
He veered left into Riley’s section, and I matched him, cutting him off near a haunted dollhouse set piece.
His boots screeched against the concrete as he slid to a stop before throwing himself in the opposite direction.
We burst through her set, scattering a family. Riley shouted something, her voice lost in the music, but I still didn’t care. All I could focus on was Jude.
Jude glanced back, saw me gaining, and then pivoted hard, aiming for the connector tunnel that led backstage and looped back towards our zone.
I needed to cut him off before he got there.
If he got backstage, then the game was up.
The lights would be on, and the thrill of the chase—of this primal hunt—would be over.
I had to get him into that dark space between our worlds.
That place between the show that built us up and the reality that killed everything we were.
I had to drag him back there and make him—
Jude’s boot caught something. A crack. A seam. A wire. I didn’t see what.
I just saw him fall.
Jude went down sideways. His ankle twisted unnaturally beneath him, and he hit the ground with a cry that ripped through every layer of anger I’d built.
I stopped chasing him and instead started running towards him.
In my head and heart, there was a difference.
Fuck.