It’s just…hard.
Does she have to besopretty? So alluring? So…her?
No, knock that off, Lukas. It’s notherfault she’s a precious little angel. I’m the messed up one here. I’m the one who needs to be careful. I’m the one calling the shots. I’m the one incontrol.
Even though it feels like I’ve been spiraling out of it ever since my eyes met hers…
Repeating good sentiments in my head a few times over, to make sure they actually sink in, I say, “You have sixty seconds to start grabbing stuff to try on, or else I’m buying out the store.”
She squeaks.
“Sixty…” I drawl. “Fifty-nineee…”
She bolts toward the blue dress, so I chuckle and stay where I am until she’s filled her arms with clothes and headed toward the few dressing rooms visible from the main storefront. Finding my way to a seat outside the stalls, I get my phone from my pocket and check my notifications.
See?I tell myself.Your new toy stops giving you her attention for three seconds, and you’re already starving. Mind yourself, Lukas. Youarethe bad guy.
The thousands of comments on my Leopard and Instagram accounts fill something cracked inside me, making it seem for a precious moment that whatever I get from these cheap interactions doesn’t immediately ooze out of my broken parts.
For a boost, I reply to a particularly obsessed comment and picture the fan losing their mind. In my twisted skull, they screenshot the message thread, tell all their friends, let the factKingresponded to them change their life forever.
It’s self, self, self and ego, ego, ego. All the time. Constantly.
Everything is aboutme. Always. Forever.
It’s painful if it’s not. And I don’t like pain.
Surviving without a constant stream of adoring focus on me at this point seems impossible. I’m thirty-two. Whatever this poison is, it’s in my code now. My brain’s been developed all wrong. Which means it’s reassuring to know that Clara still has time. She’s younger than me. She can still change. Her brain has a chance to develop without abuse for a while.
And maybe, if I can chain my wickedness up well enough to spare her from it, she won’t become just as mutilated as me.
Blue flutters before my eyes, and I forget what I’m typing to another fan the second I look up.
My all-wrong brain turns off, so it can restart and update my files to include…this. Whatever this is. A new drug, perhaps? A different reason to live? Something…something thatisn’tme…to focus on? A swear slips from my lips, and Clara’s shoulders bunch. Anxious, she whispers, “I can’t get out…” Her eyes squeeze shut, and she breathes, “I’m so sorry. I…I need help.”
I blink.
Oh.
She pulls the waterfall blonde of her hair over her shoulder and shows me her back.
Oh.
“I’m stuck.” Her breath trembles, and I swear she’s about to cry. “The zipper’s caught. I don’t want to rip the fabric. I’m so, so sorry.”
I stare. At pale skin. Atbeauty.
Oh…my…her.
Mouth dry, I swallow, replay her words in an effort to regain my brain. My thoughts land on thatsorry.
Sorry…? For what? My eyes focus on her—her, her, her. The shape of her. The way the cloth of the dress holds her.Her.
I find the easily fixed problem she’s choked up over.
Frick. That zipper’s tiny…and it is most definitely stuck. Right below the thick band of her cream bra strap, which is peeking above the low back of this dress.
Most of my life, fans have thrown lacy little numbers at me on stage. Some have deemed it appropriate to jerk up their shirts when I look their way. I’m not a stranger to feminine wiles or pretty skin at a distance—for the most part.
