Chapter 8 #2
These aren’t just markings. They’re scars.
I suck in a breath. “How did these happen?”
He presses his lips together, his mouth a harder line than it was a moment ago, before he lets the tension go with a shrug. “I’ve been through a few windows.”
Steel did these, I realize, a sick feeling curling in my stomach. I try not to imagine pieces of glass littering his flesh, in his shoulder and his side.
It must show on my face, because he rolls his eyes and takes my hand in his, tugging it away from his scars like I’ll forget about them if I just look away. “Some of them were my idea, though. It’s uh, rough and tumble stuff, sometimes, being a hench-goon.”
He holds me loosely, tracing a finger up and down one of mine, mapping the shape of my hand, stopping to circle over one of my knuckles. He brushes the back of my hand against his mouth. There’s something so sweet about that small gesture.
I open my mouth to speak, but a sound stops me. Ellis frowns and looks over his shoulder, then back at me. I can’t place where it’s coming from at first, but a mere moment later I recognize the deafening beats of blades chopping through the air.
It shakes my windows, the room even, as it grows louder, more intense. `
I gasp, sitting up. “Clayton must be landing on the building.” I scoot off my bed, bounding over to the window to look out. The flashing lights from the helicopter landing just a couple floors up reflect off the neighboring building.
“That sounds bigger than the rocket boots,” Ellis says, pushing off the bed and following to the window.
Then my phone starts buzzing, joining the cacophony, and Clayton’s picture flashes across my screen.
“His helicopter,” I tell him, frantically searching through the clothes I’ve discarded to the floor. I can’t find my bra or underwear, but maybe sweatpants and a big sweater will be enough.
“Oh, of course,” he scoffs, unhurried. “Well, you know those billionaire vigilantes. They love their toys.”
“You need to go,” I hiss over my shoulder, tugging my sweatpants on. The feeling of the fabric meeting my still-wet nethers only reminds me of everything we shouldn’t have done.
“Did you invite him over?”
“No, no. He just does this sometimes.”
“And you’re just going to let him? Tell him you’ve got company,” he says, starting to frown. Maybe he imagines that there’s a world where Clayton can take no for an answer.
“No, you don’t understand. He’ll get mad,” I whisper. I don’t know how to explain it to someone who hasn’t been in the room with him when he’s like this, how awful even the smallest upset from him can feel, the way the mere quiet of the room feels crushing when he’s displeased.
I roll open the balcony door instead, the frigid night air sweeping through, and give him a pleading look.
Ellis sighs, but doesn’t argue.
He looks a little disappointed; it leaches into his posture, sinking his shoulders.
I want to tell him I’m also upset that we don’t have more time, but that’s not something I can fix right this second.
I’m willing to believe I can run into him in this city again, with our track record these last couple days.
“At least give me a kiss before I go,” he says, stopping in the doorway, hovering next to me.
I make a face at him, holding back a squeak that we don’t have any time to waste. Instead, I put a hand on his chest and grab the back of his neck with the other, tugging him down and standing on my toes to kiss him.
It lasts a few seconds longer than it should, but I can’t drag myself away from savoring the feeling of his mouth on mine. My tenuous balance gives out before I do.
Ellis grins down at me when I let go and land hard on my heels, putting a few inches of distance between our faces.
He glances at the floor between us, and I only have a moment to glimpse the panties I was looking for sticking out of the bottom of my pant leg, before he bends down and hooks a finger through them.
“Go, just go,” I say, waving frantically as the doorbell sounds.
This asshole ducks out the door with my fucking panties, tucking them against his chest as he zips his flying suit all the way back up. He flashes me a toothy, devil-may-care grin, and if I were any less worried about him being seen it would have melted me.
Not a second after I slide the balcony door shut again, my bedroom door opens. I whirl around, absolutely unprepared.
Clayton steps in wearing a glossy green tuxedo, a pair of champagne flutes and a bottle of something fancy in his hands. Even dressed up, the cybernetic robot glove wraps his right forearm.
For a heartbeat, I’m sure a look at me can only be damning. Ellis’s touch still feels present on my skin, my hair bedridden, and my mouth still flushed from his kiss.
Somehow all of it escapes Clayton’s notice as he frowns. “Did you get my text?”
“What? No, I haven’t checked my phone in a bit,” I say, feeling my cheeks redden guiltily.
I cannot deal with him right now. I haven’t had time to process any of my feelings about what just happened with Ellis. I need like a goddamn hour to journal about the fact I’ve still got his freaking saliva on me.
“Well, then. You should get dressed, come to dinner,” Clayton says, setting the glasses down. “The restaurant will hold our table.”
He starts fiddling with the foil and wire wrapping on the champagne bottle, peeling it open.
“I’ve already eaten.”
“Dessert, then. I have news,” Clayton tells me, waving a hand. The gesture activates the device on his arm, little robotic tendrils fluidly wrap around the bottle’s neck, popping the cork.
“Clayton, you can’t just drop by like this,” I tell him, hugging one arm around myself. “We talked about this, boundaries, remember?”
“I wanted you to come celebrate with me. The mayor finally got the paperwork through,” he says, brushing my concern off as if he didn’t hear it.
It’s really starting to rub me the wrong way that he keeps just letting himself in. This may be his building, but it’s my fucking apartment. But it’s fine, it’s whatever. I feel bad about missing his texts, it’s my fault for not answering earlier and heading this off before it started.
He pours each of us a glass, hands me one, and makes a movement with it as if to toast himself. “He named me ‘Protector of the City.’ I think it’s got a nice ring to it.”
I stand there with my arms crossed, staring back at him. A beat or two goes by and I’m not really sure what to say.
“Yeah, that’s . . . great,” I say, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. I’m pretty sure that’s just a formality. The mayor had drafted emergency citywide edicts when mutants first started popping up.
I sigh and resign myself to the fact that I’m going to have to put a bra back on. Maybe I can get away with just some red lipstick instead of doing full glam.
Taking a sip of my drink, I head over to my closet to grab something to wear, when a thought strikes me. “Did the mayor say anything about the investigation into the ooze while you were there?”
Clayton groans. “Can’t we just celebrate my victory? You act like it’s so hard for you to be happy for me.”
I massage my temple momentarily, looking for patience. Am I really being that much of a bitch? God, I probably am. The main emotion I’m working with at the moment is that I was about to get monster dicked down a minute ago, and that I don’t actually get to know what that’s like.
“Right . . . right. I’m sorry. I am happy for you.”
He takes a sip from his drink and clinks his glass gently against mine.
“It’s important to me that there’s nothing that will stop me from being able to protect you,” he murmurs, his tone terribly heartfelt.
I hate that my first thought is about how suffocating that sounds.
I know he means it from a good place, even though I’ve told him we’re not together anymore. But the longer I think about it, the less easy it sits with me. Why does he have to be so concerned about ‘protecting me’? Why does it mean he can bulldoze through any distance I try to put between us?
Not to mention, it’s inaccurate. I’ve experienced an exponential uptick in being kidnapped and other dangers since having met him.
“You should focus your efforts on what’s causing the ooze,” I mutter. It’s like talking to a brick wall. He can’t be convinced of something he doesn’t want to be, only distracted by something else he already likes. I’m tired of trying to spin important things into the shiny distractions he likes.
“The ooze isn’t going anywhere. I’m more focused with these super powered mutants that keep popping up and terrorizing the city,” he scoffs. “I’m going to keep you safe.”
“By just beating people up? I mean, I’m not saying a support group for mutants would fix things but maybe all that technology and robotics could find a way to de-escalate things.”
“Lacey,” Clayton warns, his grip tightening on his champagne flute, a delicate sound of the glass cracking under tension.
I can’t help that I sound angry. I am, a little bit.
When is he going to take this seriously? It’s like he doesn’t understand the importance of having as much power as he does.
“No, you listen,” I start to say, when a hint of movement on the balcony catches my attention. What’s worse, I notice a couple clawed hands holding onto the edge of the balcony under the sleek safety railing. I nearly gasp when one of the hands lets go, worried he slipped.
Clayton catches my eye again, looking concerned. “What is it?”
A second later I see Ellis pull himself up just enough to peek over the edge. He gives me the most shit-eating grin, running his free hand through his hair to shake the snowflakes out of it.
What the fuck.
Is he just, what, hanging off the side of my balcony, waiting for my ex to leave? I can’t believe it.
“I—nothing,” I stammer, as his eyes narrow at me. “Probably just a bird.”
By the time Clayton turns to look out the window, Ellis has disappeared out of view again, only his knuckles curled around the metal bar hinting that he’s still there. I just hope it’s dark enough that Clayton won’t notice one detail out of place.
Ellis has wings, he can fly if his grip fails, I try to remind myself. I’m not going to tie myself in knots worrying about whatever terrible decisions he’s making at the moment.
“It’s nothing, Clayton, come on, let’s just go to dinner,” I plead. I don’t care that it’s terribly suspicious to have a sudden about-face in attitude.
Of course, Clayton doesn’t listen to me. He brushes past me and throws open the sliding glass door. He steps outside into the dark.
I catch sight of a pair of large bat wings, silhouetted against the lights of buildings and traffic, veering around a corner, and breathe a sigh of relief.
But Clayton’s eyes are on the thin layer of undisturbed snow creeping up to my door. He flicks on the balcony light, a pair of clawed footprints from where Ellis landed before remain, plain to see.