He flies off, returning a few moments later with a steaming tray of eggplant Parmesan. He dishes it out, and the salty, savory taste and the incredible smell distracts me from more dangerous conversations as we slip into easier ones.
He keeps the wine flowing, and we talk late into the night about everything and anything. He tells me about his prim and proper “host” family, who were wealthy and status driven and so ecstatic to have a Champion for a kid that they treated him like a shiny trophy. I understand why he hates them.
I tell him about my family and what it was like growing up as a third culture kid. Well, we both were, in a sense—a fact that bonded us further.
We talked about the Champions, speculating over who will turn next, and if any of the villains might. Hearing him talk about the Wyvern and Mr. Singkham and Ms. Lemon makes me laugh, despite my misgivings—my lies. He holds them in very little regard. I tell him I kinda like the Wyvern, and he admits that he kinda likes the big idiot too. We talk until the sunset burns away the light and indigo comes to cover the world. As night truly settles over us, I invite him inside, like a horny idiot. Instead of accepting outright, he wrenches open the door to my balcony, shoves me inside, and kisses me in that tender way.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers against my lips as I swoon toward him.
“What’s tomorrow?” I ask dazedly after him as he heads to my balcony and gathers our dirty dishes and the tray with the rest of the eggplant Parmesan.
“I’m taking you on another date.” He pauses over the threshold.
“You should let me takeyouon a date.”
He cocks his head, considering giving up control ... and I watch as he finally gives in. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”
“I promise it won’t be torture,” I say, wondering if I should take him to an art gallery, dinner, a slasher flick—my favorite—or something else entirely.
He just grunts; then, before he leaves, he says, “Better not be, or you won’t like your punishment.”
I’m giddy as a schoolgirl until I check my phone—my new phone—and see an email markedUrgentfrom Mr. Singkham waiting at the top of my inbox.
Ms. Neumann, the details for your next mission are attached.
Shit. Next Friday. Five p.m. And I still haven’t told Darius about any of it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Darius
The next week passes in a blur. I see Monika every damn day, and now that she’s gotten the all clear from Emily, every damn day I also fuck her.
She takes me on dates. Last Friday, she took me to see some horror movie that might actually be the worst film I’ve ever seen. The only thing that made it bearable was the way Monika laughed hysterically anytime anybody died and talked through all of it. Saturday, we realized we share a competitive streak and played a dozen board games. I won, I punished her. She won, I punished her. Sunday, we got breakfast and I forced her to let me join the call when she videoed her parents. Monday, she had to work and I had to wrap up some shit.
I got the design team to make me enough clothes to last me months. Tuesday, I convinced Monika to send me the full video of the night that I reverted. I made my assistants hand over the log-in credentials for my social media accounts and posted the full video myself. I then recorded a short follow-up video telling the world I was resigning as a Champion. Not wanting to waste extra effort typing up something original, I sent Mr. Singkham the same video with the subject line:Two Seconds Notice. Wednesday, his team tried to contact me, going so far as to come to my apartment building, but this ismyapartment, not theCOE’s, so I simply called the cops while I flew on outta there with Monika on my arm and took her to dinner.
Earlier today, Monika took me to her art gallery for the first time. I was surprised. Don’t know why, since it was her idea, but Monika doesn’t seem to mind I’m no longer a Champion. Her gallery is impressive, even if the exhibit isn’t her artwork. Her confidence gives me confidence. Her confidence inmeerases any hesitation I might have had that resigning was the right choice. I don’t start imagining new projects and activities for myself yet, for now I’m simply content to be.
Lying out on my balcony again in a way that’s become second nature, I text my girl:What are you wearing?
She responds a few seconds later with a picture of herself in the nude. I reach under boxers especially tailored to my size—my last parting gift from the COE—and start to jack off. I wonder, if I come over the edge of the balcony, what poor sap it’ll fall on thinking it’s bird shit. Ha. I never realized such small tortures could bring such simple satisfaction to me. This new life as Darius might just prove to befun.
You’re fucking incredible. Hate that you’re working. Can’t wait to have you all to myself tomorrow night.I send her a picture of my hard cock against Sundale’s impressive skyline.
She does not respond satisfactorily.About that. I messed up. I have a photoshoot for the Wyvern and Vanessa. Can we do Saturday?
Rage permeates my being. My urge to text the Wyvern, Vanessa, Mr. Singkham—to cut power to the entire damn COE power grid—is so strong the lights in my own penthouse flicker. I set my phone down in a rage, take several deep breaths, and bring the lights back. The poor sap that was about to get cummed on is spared. This time.
Idon’tstorm her apartment, bend her over one of those ridiculous colorful couches she has, and spell my name in bright-red handprints on her perfect round ass. Instead, I simply exhale anger and respond to her text.OK.Look at that. Growth.
And I’m rewarded for my sacrifice.I’ll make it worth it, promise.
I smile.Expect punishment.
I’d expect nothing less.
I grin up at the sky, liking this life already.
