Heat hums low in my belly. Like the first sip of whiskey trickling down my throat after a long day, mixing my magic with Alistair’s is addictive. Does he sense it? The intimacy?
He still hates you, idiot.
It’s the reality check I need. Hands shaking, I let the nightmare crash around us, revealing the gray, boring apartment. Thejungle isn’t real; there are no ass-flavored cocktails, either—only a couch and three supernaturals with more problems than we can count.
“I’ve got to go to work,” Luca says, his throat bobbing. “But great job with that. Both of you. It was... cool to experience.”
The raspy tone of his voice makes me wonder how Luca felt being bathed in our magic. I want to ask him if it turned him on. If Alistair weren’t here, maybe I would. But I’m the one on the outside, and I need to stop forgetting it.
NINETEEN
Unspoken rule of the Fringes #317:
A supernatural instinct ignored too long will become someone else’s problem.
CELINE
Working the pole is more of a penance tonight than anything else. My body hurts. Each muscle screams at me to cut it some slack. Internally, I scream back, reminding them they only get to feel sore because they aren’t rotting in a shallow grave.
Dad’s killers are here. Like a breeze against my skin, I feel it. They’re coming for me. I’ll have to kill them all. Sore muscles or not.
My grip falters, and I drop a foot down the pole. A few guys clustered around the stage gasp, but I catch myself before I hit the ground. That draws a few scattered claps—good, they think I did it on purpose. That’s better than everyone here knowing I’m too tired to work the pole.
My song ends, and I force myself to bend and pick up theloose cash, groaning quietly. There’s no way this is sexy. I feel about two hundred years old.
I hobble off stage, skirt the main floor, and drag myself directly to the bar.
Luca hands me a water bottle. I consider rolling it over my aching joints, but that would send a weak message. What I need is something to take the edge off. Leaning against the bar, I do my best to look natural.
“Tequila,” I say, sipping the cool water slowly. “Can you pour me a double shot?”
Luca raises one eyebrow and checks me over from head to toe.
I wait for him to offer solutions I didn’t ask for. He’ll tell me to rest or suggest I skip my next set and do a floor routine instead... I’m so primed to argue that I wilt when he scoops ice into a cup—four cubes, exactly how I like it—and fills it to the brim with top-shelf tequila.
“I’m rattled,” he tells me, glancing around to make sure no one is within earshot. “Can we watch a few episodes of that crazy island dating show when we get home?”
I haven’t thought about that show in weeks, but the idea of collapsing on the couch with him and distracting myself from everything sounds so euphoric I moan.
“Is that a yes?” Luca asks, his crooked grin startling the butterflies in my stomach.
I toss my head back and down the tequila. An ice cube bumps my upper lip, cold and soothing—the perfect contrast to the burn of the liquor as it crashes down my throat.
“You’ve got yourself a date,” I say, leaning over the bar to kiss him.
It’s a spontaneous decision. Strippers typically don’t kiss their boyfriends fifteen feet from the main stage. It isn’t good marketing. I’m selling a fantasy, like Malach said, and if I remove the illusion of availability...
“Only a couple of people saw,” Luca says, correctly reading my expression. “I’ll come find you during my break.”
He smirks, and the familiar playful expression melts some of my worry.
I love both sides of Luca—the one who respects my boundaries, and the one who accommodates nothing but the raspy screams he tears from me while he fucks me.
My libido lifts its head speculatively, and I hand off my empty glass and push it down. Now is not the time to get horny.
The music pounds around me, and I drag my tired feet down the hall toward the employees-only spaces. Inside the dressing room, the girls giggle as they change.
I smile, but duck into the storage room instead.
