Chapter 26
Taio
The bathroom door is cracked open, steam curling through the gap like an invitation I’m not sure I should accept.
It’s the morning of the first Atlanta show, and Charlie has been in that bathtub for over an hour. She’s probably decompressing. Sage didn’t leave until the evening, after they’d spent six hours arguing about social media strategy. Or rather, Sage argued. Charlie just kept saying no.
No statement. No spin. No feeding the beast.
“People need to hear your side,” Sage insisted, pacing the living room like a caged animal. “Silence looks like guilt. It looks like you have something to hide.”
“I don’t have anything to hide anymore,” Charlie replied, calm as still water. “The truth is out. Taio and I are together. Grayson and I were never real. If people want to believe his version, that’s their choice.”
Sage looked at me like I might be able to talk some sense into her client, but I just shrugged.
Charlie made her choice, and I’m not about to undermine it.
Even if part of me wonders whether silence is really the best approach when Grayson is out there poisoning every well he can find.
The man has been relentless—new posts every few hours, each one more passive-aggressive than the last.
But Charlie’s done performing. And honestly? I think that’s the bravest thing she could do.
I push the bathroom door open slowly, announcing my presence. “Hey.”
Charlie is submerged up to her shoulders in bubbles, head tipped back against the rim of the tub, AirPods in. Her eyes are closed, but there’s nothing relaxed about her. Her jaw is tight. Her shoulders are creeping toward her ears. One hand grips the edge of the tub like she’s bracing for impact.
Whatever she’s listening to isn’t helping.
I crouch beside the tub and touch her arm gently. She startles, eyes flying open, then relaxes when she sees it’s me.
“Sorry.” She pulls out one AirPod. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
“I noticed.” I settle onto the bath mat, back against the wall, close enough to touch her if she wants but not crowding. “What are you listening to?”
“Nothing. Just white noise. Rain sounds. Trying to drown out my own thoughts.” She pulls out the other AirPod and sets them both on the edge of the tub. “It’s not working. My brain is louder than any rainstorm.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Charlie.” I say her name like a gentle push. “I can see you spiraling from here.”
She sighs, sinking deeper into the bubbles until they reach her chin. “I’m fine. I just need to get through today. The first show after is always the worst.”
I reach over and brush a strand of wet hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. “What’s wrong, baby?”
She’s quiet for a long moment. The water ripples as she shifts, drawing her knees up to her chest like she’s trying to protect her vital organs from an attack she can sense coming.
“I’m scared,” she finally admits, her voice small.
“Of what specifically?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” She lets out a hollow sound that’s more like a sob dressed up as a laugh.
“The internet is having a field day right now. Grayson’s narrative is winning because he’s the only one talking.
People think I’m a cheater, a slut, a liar—pick your favorite insult, I’ve seen it in my mentions.
And tonight I have to walk out on that stage and pretend like none of it matters. ”
“It doesn’t matter. Not really.”
“It does, though. Because those people bought tickets. They’re going to be in that arena, thousands of them, and some of them are going to be angry.
They came to see America’s sweetheart, and instead they got…
” She shakes her head. “What if someone heckles me? What if someone throws something? What if—” She stops, swallowing hard.
“What if someone is so angry about what they’ve heard that they decide to do something about it? ”
The fear in her eyes guts me. This isn’t about reputation anymore. This is about safety. About the very real possibility that some unhinged stranger might decide to make a statement at her expense.
“Hey.” I shift closer, taking her hand under the water. “Look at me.”
She does, reluctantly.
“I’m going to be there tonight. Right in the wings, watching every second. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll handle it. That’s literally my job, remember?”
“I know. I just…” She squeezes my hand. “I can’t get out of my own head. Every time I close my eyes, I see worst-case scenarios. My brain won’t stop running disaster simulations.”
I study her face—the tension in her brow, the way she’s chewing her bottom lip, the shadows under her eyes that tell me she hasn’t slept well despite our activities last night. She’s trapped in her own anxiety, and no amount of reassurance is going to logic her out of it.
She needs a distraction. A reset. Something to pull her out of her head and back into her body.
“Charlie.” I keep my voice casual. “Where’s The Detonator?”
She blinks, thrown by the subject change. “What?”
“The vibrator. I know you still have it. Where is it?”
A flush creeps up her neck, visible even through the steam. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
“It’s…” She hesitates, suddenly fascinated by the bubbles surrounding her. “It’s in my underwear drawer.”
“Is the battery charged?”
The flush deepens. “Fifty-fifty chance.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Oh really?”
“Shut up.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re smiling. That’s saying something.”
“I’m smiling because I find it incredibly sexy that you’ve been using it.” I lean closer, my lips near her ear. “Tell me, how’d it perform? Is it better than me?”
She pretends to gasp. “No. Of course not.” Then she clears her throat. “Very close second though.”
I press a kiss to her forehead and stand. “Don’t move.”
Her underwear drawer is exactly where I expected—top right in the massive walk-in closet. I find The Detonator nestled between silk and lace, already freed from its packaging just like she said. The thing is even more ridiculous up close, all curves and buttons and promises of destruction.
When I return to the bathroom, Charlie has shifted in the tub, sitting up straighter, the water lapping at her breasts. Her nipples are hard—from the cooling water or anticipation, I’m not sure. Probably both.
I hand her the toy and settle back against the wall, making myself comfortable. “Show me.”
She takes a breath, then another, working up her courage. Her fingers find the button, and The Detonator hums to life with a low vibration that I can hear even from here. She starts slow, tracing the toy along her collarbone, down between her breasts, circling each nipple until she gasps.
“Lower,” I tell her.
She obeys, dragging the vibrator down her stomach, beneath the water’s surface. I can’t see what she’s doing anymore, but I can see her face—the way her lips part, the way her eyes flutter closed, the way her head tips back against the porcelain tub.
“That’s it.” My voice has gone rough. “Just like that.”
Her hips shift beneath the water, chasing the sensation. A soft moan escapes her throat, and my cock throbs in response. I palm myself through my sweatpants, not hiding it, letting her see what she’s doing to me.
She opens her eyes and looks at me, pupils pried wide with panic and anticipation. “Do you want me to put it in?” Her voice is almost apologetic, as if she’s bad for wanting to be watched.
“Yes,” I say. I want her greedy, I want her ruined.
“Do you want me to use both?” The Detonator is two-pronged, a joke and a challenge, both ends curved like a cartoon villain’s mustache. I can’t believe she’s asking, and I can’t believe how badly I want to see.
“I want you to do what you like, baby.”
Charlie’s hand trembles a little. “I want to try. I don’t know if I can,” she says. “How?”
I grab the bath oil sitting on the tub ledge and pour it into my hand. Understanding where I’m going, she lifts The Detonator out of the water, and I thoroughly coat both heads. I bring my mouth to her ear. “Turn over.”
She blinks at me, skin already slicked with sweat and steam. “What, like—”
I nod. “Hands and knees. We’ll go slow, okay?”
There’s a beat where I see her hesitate, considering the strangeness of the position, the exposure, but then her eyes flick to my face, and she does it—knees tucked under her, elbows braced on the white porcelain, head bowed.
Her ass breaks the surface, bubbles sluicing off and making rivers down the small of her back.
I stare openly, shameless, at the way her body curves, the twinge of muscle in her thigh as she steadies herself.
“Beautiful,” I tell her, and she laughs, a nervous edge to it.
“You’re a pervert.”
“You love it,” I answer, and swirl the bath oil between my fingers, warming it. Tightening my fist, I let it drip slowly down her ass crack, and she twitches, a little giggle escaping. “That tickles,” she mutters, but it doesn’t sound like a protest.
I knead the oil in, circling her rim with the pad of my thumb, and she makes a strangled little sound, burying her face in her crossed arms. I keep going, slow and easy, letting her get used to it.
When her breath evens out—when I can see the tension start to melt away from her shoulders—I position the toy.
The tip of The Detonator glides between her folds, bumping gently against the swelling flesh there.
I watch her back arch, see her knees spread wider for leverage.
Charlie’s legs look almost too long for the tub, like she’s trying to outrun her own nervousness.
I guide her hand so the toy is right where she wants it, the soft silicone nosing forward.
“Breathe,” I remind her, and she does, a shuddering inhale that echoes off the tile. The first slick inch slides in, and she gasps, her spine flexing like an animal startled in the woods. I steady her hip with one hand, not to restrain, just to show her I’m here.
“It’s intense,” she says, muffled by her arms.