Chapter 24 Sloane
Sloane
I’m trying to process everything that happened as I remove my clothing and step into a tub the size of a spa.
I sit down and lean back until the delightfully warm water covers my shoulders.
A sigh escapes my lips at the feel of my muscles relaxing one by one.
I wave my hand through the water slowly, playing with the bubbles that are scattered over the top.
I have no idea what came over me. Maybe it was revenge for that awful text that I still can’t get out of my mind.
Maybe it was the heat of the moment. Van was right when he said that being chased through the forest by a masked man was turning me on.
His words after that, though, are what did me in.
“…who wants to fuck that attitude right out of you.”
Holy hell. That was hot. I half considered dialing up the attitude after that. I hated myself for how responsive my body was to those words alone. I hated myself even more for wanting Van to follow through on them.
“You were with the professor nearly hours ago,” Halo me chastises. I cringe at the thought.
“Serves him right for breaking it off over a text message.” The one with the pitchfork snorts. I smile because she’s also right.
I slide down the tub until my head is under water, remaining there until my lungs burn.
I consider putting myself out of my misery right here and now, before plunging out of the water and sucking in a breath.
I wipe the water out of my eyes with my hands, laughing out loud at the complete dumpster fire that is my current life.
Maybe Van was wrong, and the frequency is messing with my head.
I sigh because the two bickering fools in my head both know that’s a complete lie.
As I wash the dirt out of my hair and from my skin, I recall the way Van took control out there.
It felt so … familiar. How did I manage to find two men who share similar kinks within a thirty-mile radius?
It’s almost too good to be true. Maybe I could force them to meet and mash them together until they become one.
I laugh out loud again at how ridiculous that mental image is.
I finish up in the bath, towel off, and throw on the all-black T-shirt that Van left for me.
The clothing has a woodsy scent. I inhale deeply, and another scent tugs at my memory.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, noticing that the shirt is so large that it falls to my knees.
I look down at my dirt-smudged jeans on the bathroom floor, biting my bottom lip.
I don’t want to put them back on after bathing, so I opt to find a pair of his boxer shorts to throw on instead.
I recall passing through his bedroom on the way in here.
I open the bathroom door and peek out to make sure he isn’t in there.
I tiptoe to his dresser and open up the top drawer, expecting to find his underwear.
But what I find in it instead is his off-stage masks.
I run my hand over them, feeling the fabric against my fingertips.
I’m mindlessly flipping through them one by one when my finger hits something hard and box-shaped, near the bottom of the stack.
I peek over my shoulder at the bedroom doorway to make sure no one managed to sneak up on me in the last minute before resuming my snooping.
I know that I should close the drawer and find what I’m looking for, but I can’t force myself to abandon the mysterious box.
I pull the box out and study it. It’s an antique, gold-plated box with ornate designs covering it.
There’s an unlocked latch on the front. I flip the latch, holding my breath with my hand on the lid like I’m expecting something to come flying out of it.
Before I’m able to open it, I hear footsteps coming my way.
I hurriedly place the box back in the drawer beneath the masks and close it.
When Van walks in, I’m already fumbling through another clothing drawer.
“What are you doing?” he asks, confused.
“I thought maybe I could borrow one of your boxers since my jeans were dirty, and I wasn’t wearing any und—”
“Yeah, of course. My bad,” he says, opening up his underwear drawer to grab a pair of boxer briefs and handing them to me. “Might be a little big.”
“That’s fine,” I say, stepping into them. I tie them off at the waist so they’ll stay on. It will do for now. I look up at him, and he’s staring down at my shirt, his shirt.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Oh, nothing,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “It … looks a lot better on you than on me.”
“Oh, um …” I say, staring down at the floor. My hand instinctively comes up to my earring to twirl it in my fingers. “Thanks?” I say, like it’s a question.
He stands there assessing me for another second before asking, “Do you want to come to the living room? I made us a pizza. Figured you’d be hungry after … everything.” He coughs.
“Sure,” I say, voice an octave higher than intended.
I follow him out of the room and into his living room, where there’s an amazing-smelling margherita flatbread pizza sitting atop a pizza stone on a white marble coffee table in front of a large white sectional.
I take a seat, my stomach growling to expose my hunger.
Van laughs, taking a seat beside me. He plates the pizza and hands a slice to me.
I try not to look like I’ve never eaten a day in my life as I shovel the delicious cheesy goodness into my mouth.
“Hungry?” He laughs. I notice that he isn’t eating any, but don’t question it. I’m assuming he ate while I was bathing. Less time to have to mess with his mask in front of someone, I guess.
“Just a bit,” I respond. “Worked up quite the appetite, it would seem,” I say out loud, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
My eyes shoot up to him, and I know my cheeks are as crimson as a hibiscus in full bloom.
Stupid, stupid brain. Of all the thoughts that never leave my lips daily, that’s the one that manages to slip free? I internally face-palm.
“It would seem so,” he says playfully. He allows me time to finish my slice before engaging in any more awkward conversation. After eating three whole slices, I place my empty plate on the table and sit back, crossing my legs over one another.
“So, Sloane. Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, sitting back and spreading his arms out over the back of the sofa.
Talk about what? I think. Like the fact that you nearly killed a man for touching me?
Or, what about the way you made me come with your fingers inside of me after catching me in the forest while I screamed your name?
No? Then perhaps we could talk about what’s hiding in that mysterious box in your mask drawer?
But I don’t say any of those things. Instead, I say, “You first.”
He chuckles. “Okay, fine. Look, I’m sorry about that guy at the show. He had his hands all over you, and I was only looking out for your safety. The devil only knows what he was going to do to you.” I wish I could see his face, read his emotions. It feels like there’s more to it than that.
“It’s fine. And you’re probably right. I’m sure he was planning to sex traffic me across the country to his high lords who were lying in wait. Maybe feed me to their pet tiger,” I deadpan. He stiffens at my words.
“Sloane.” It sounds more like a warning than a name. I stare at him, wondering if he’ll follow through on that attitude threat if I …
He interrupts my dangerous thoughts with, “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I ask honestly.
“Devalue your worth, play everything off as a joke,” he answers.
“I’m sorry?” That’s all I can manage to say back to the unexpected response.
“Good. Now, your turn.” He traces patterns on the back of the sofa with his lengthy fingers. The same fingers that were inside of me mere minutes ago. I find myself staring at them for way longer than a person should stare at someone’s fingers. He clears his throat, forcing my gaze back to him.
“I—I was coming back inside to check on you. But it wasn’t only that,” I say, as he continues tracing lazy patterns on the sofa.
He responds with a single, “Oh?” while maintaining a posture of indifference.
“Yeah. Something … something was pulling at me to come back in. I’m not even sure what I planned to do once I got to you. All I know is that in that moment, I needed to get to you,” I say, fiddling with my hands in my lap.
“Hmmm, that’s funny. Because I could say the same thing about you, Sloane.” I hate the way my name coming out of his mouth makes the butterflies in my stomach do somersaults.
“Oh?” I ask, repeating his words back to him. I need to see his face so bad. I don’t want to dishonor his wishes to remain anonymous, though. If he wanted me to see him, he’d let me.
“Mhm,” he murmurs.
“Okay, then,” I say, laying my head on the back of the sofa. “A question for a question?” I ask.
He stares at me, considering. “Fine. You first,” he says.
“Why do you do it?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“The music, the mask, Sonus. All of it,” I reply.
“Hmm. That sounds like more than one question, Sloane,” he says, tilting his head to the side. “What will you give me in return?”
I stop breathing for a fraction of a second before inserting my foot straight into my mouth. “Whatever you want.”
He lets out a low, grumbled laugh. “Little nightmare. Do not make deals with the devil. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?”
“And are you … the devil, then? And why do you keep calling me that?” I ask.
“Hmmm, I guess you’ll have to stick around and find out for yourself.”
I laugh, lifting my head from the sofa. He reaches over and brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
I pause, taken aback by the unexpected contact and the sudden charge of tension in the air.
My lips part as I suck in a low, quiet breath.
He pulls his hand away and continues the conversation like it never happened.