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I pull my eyes away from the new crew and train them on Delila. “How come I haven’t seen them before?”
Delila chuckles, lighting her smoke and leaning back in her chair. “Because one, you haven’t been here long and two, they don’t make themselves known outside of acts. They’ve been here a long time, and people still travel and pay from all over the place to see their act.”
“Which is?” I ask, intrigued. I find myself looking back at the better looking one. “Just out of curiosity.”
Delila flicks the end of her smoke out, and I watch as the ash falls to the ground. “Sex, mainly. What happens when demons meet angels?” Delila’s eyes flick between King and me. “What happens when innocence collides with corruption?”
I lick my lips. “So they all have sex. In front of everyone?”
Delila must find me amusing when I’m drunk because she’s laughing again. “Yes, Little Bird. Each act is different. Think of it as live porn, I guess.”
“Isn’t that what the last scene is?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Delila’s eyes narrow. “No. That is for The Brothers, and it can be whatever they want. Though I should warn you, everyone here has been with everyone here.” Her eyes flick to Kingston before she chuckles again. “Well, almost everyone.”
My shoulders slouch, my hand running over my belly.
“So anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?” she asks. “Before I leave?”
I think about how I can possibly give her a proposition of me having my own show—with a twist of something else to offer this strange crew—when she just told me that they have a group of good-looking people who give the crowd live freaking devil-angel porn. I just said “freaking” again.
I think I need water.
“I’ll talk about it with you tomorrow.”
She throws down her smoke and shrugs. “Or maybe I’ll be too busy. Goodnight, Little Bird. Don’t hurt yourself tonight.” She walks away, carrying the echo of her cackles behind her tight ass.
King’s fingers dig into my hips before I can so much as think of anything else, and he turns me, so I’m straddling his lap. He looks up at me, his eyes searching mine. “Like what you see?”
“Somewhat.” I’m meaning him, but I don’t think he’s meaning him, and again, I could really do with a glass or ten of water.
His eyes narrow, and I instantly know that I’ve done something wrong.
He stands off the chair and is flipping me upside down over his shoulder. My hand flies to my mouth to stop a scream from escaping. Now I’m staring right at the destroyed Dolce & Gabbana jeans that are strapped nicely around his tight ass. The little solar lights that lead the way are slowly disappearing with every step he takes.
“Really not necessary, King. I could have walked.”
He stops outside our RV and opens the door, carrying me inside and upstairs to his room. I don’t get a second to admire the kingdom because he’s tossing me onto his bed. My hair is everywhere, and I’m almost certain that the makeup I put on earlier is smudged all over my face, but thanks to liquid courage, I think I look like a ten. Okay, a six at best. Water.
“What are we doing, King?” He loosens his belt buckle and undoes his button. His hair is a mess all over his head, and his tanned cheeks are slightly flushed. Probably from carrying me. But then when I look over his muscles, I know that can’t be it. He obviously trains as a side hustle. I reach forward before I can stop myself, and my fingertip is connecting with the roses over his hip.
His hand instantly flies out and stops me as his other comes under my chin, tilting my face up to his. “Don’t.”
“Well, what are we doing?” I ask again, licking my lips.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and he turns around, tugging on his hair. He turns back to face me, his eyes wild. “Fuck if I know, Dove. I don’t know anymore. You—you’re.”
The red streaks around his wrist catch my eye, and I shoot up off the bed, catching his wrist before he can move it. “Blood.”
He yanks it out of my hand, and before I can say anything, his mouth is on me, and he’s pushing me back onto the bed, his body falling on top of mine. I no longer care what we are doing because whatever this is feels right. At least it does right now.
My legs widen and he sinks into me further, his head moving to the side to gain more access on my mouth. He’s heavy, and his breath is brushing over my collarbone. All of these factors contribute to the flight of butterflies that are roaring in my belly. I think of that Halsey song, where she’s saying that sometimes the warning signs feel like butterflies, but those thoughts evaporate when he grinds against me. I’m sticky from the Texas heat and from running through the forest, but on top of that, we have the alcohol and the sexual tension that has been about to snap for far too long.
