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This is the first time in a while I’ve seen Kallista this carefree, and I don’t want to interrupt her solo party. But then it switches to a slow song, and I have to grab the album sleeve off the floor to check what it is because it’s been ages since I last listened to this record.
“Ooh, this one is sensual,” Kallista says as the tempo drops dramatically.
“‘For the Girl Who Has Everything,’” I read from the sleeve. “Huh. I haven’t actually listened to the album long enough to get to this song.”
Kallista extends her arms to me and wiggles her wrists. “Dance with me.”
I stare at her hands for a long moment, then arch an eyebrow. “Thanks, but I don’t dance. Especially not in the middle of my bedroom.”
But that doesn’t seem to deter Kallista. She snatches my hands from my lap and weaves her fingers through mine. Her palms are warm, warmer than I figured they’d be for a woman of her size. Most women I’ve had the privilege of touching were as cold as an icebox and were total blanket hogs at night. Not that I minded, but … yeah. She’s definitely not cold.
She pulls me to my feet, and I roll my eyes, feigning reluctance, but the truth is I want any excuse to touch her. Ever since I laid eyes on this girl, she’s had me in a chokehold. It’s just that she’s my client, and you’re not supposed to touch the person paying your bills. Not only that, but she’s an A-list celebrity and I’m … well, me.
As though sensing my trepidation at the situation, she holds my hands just a little tighter as she looks up into my eyes. Then she slides her hands up my torso, brushing against my T-shirt with her fingertips until her arms snake around my neck. I laugh when I look down at her feet and notice she has to stand on her tiptoes to do it. I’d rather she not pull a muscle, so I bend over.
We move slowly around my bedroom like two dorky teenagers at their first high school dance, and I allow my hands to lower to her waist.
“There you go! Not so bad, is it?” she asks, still staring up at me. Her piercing hazel eyes are so mesmerizing, I can’t imagine why she changes them constantly with her Weaves. And because I’m a massive idiot who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, I decide to just ask her.
“Why do you change your eye color? I understand the hair, because it’s part of your costumes during your sets. But why your eyes? They’re so pretty.” A blush creeps across my face and throat. Why did I just say that? That they werepretty? Complimenting a woman’s eyes is different from saying her facial expressions are cute. It feels far too familiar, like I’m overstepping.
But Kallista just smiles and shrugs, like I asked about the weather. “I don’t know. I guess when I first started, I was obsessed with finding a signature look. Something to make me stand out. So, I tried deep blue, then gold, and then I settled on violet. And now people just expect it, I guess. Hazel is too boring.”
“No,” I murmur, shaking my head. “No, your eye color is … it’s perfect. There’s flecks of gold and green in there.”
The song melts into the next, and I cringe inwardly, as it seems to be yet another slow song.
“Oh, two slow dances in a row? That’s bold,” Kallista says, and I sigh with relief that the song change has her distracted.
I chuckle, tightening my grip around her waist, like I’m pulling her in for an embrace. “Yeah. It was the nineties. A wild and carefree time where you could order a submarine sandwich the length of a dining table.”
“Enjoying their creativity. That sounds nice,” she says wistfully with another slight shrug. “I envy them. It feels like the soul’s been sucked out of a lot of things these days. It would be easy to blame A.I. and other modern conveniences, I guess, but … I think we all just ran out of ideas. Or we finally stopped pretending we’re concerned with anything other than money.”
I lift an eyebrow as I watch her expression flicker between agitation and apathy. An entire story is playing out on her lips right now, and I wonder if she’s even aware that she wears her heart on her sleeve like this. “Are you describing the industry as a whole, or are you lumping yourself in there, too?”
“I used to writeallof my own songs,” she whispers. “And then, with my second album, I was told I had start using theseothersongs. Songs that were created for me by people who knew better. Now my image is tightly controlled, and I haven’t written anything in months.”
My heart sinks. I lift my hand to brush her cheek with my knuckles. To my surprise, she doesn’t flinch or pull away. We continue to sway to the music, though I can’t even hear it anymore. I can only hear her heartbeat racing rapidly inside her chest like a hummingbird.
“You should write,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Even if no one else gets to see it. Write anyway.”
She scoffs. “Yeah. Right. Just write for the sake of it? What’s the point?”
My brows slam together. “What’s the point? The point is to enjoy your creativity, of course. Why do anything? Why write a poem, or write a book? It’s freedom, Kal.”
Kallista continues to stare up at me with her mouth twisted to the side, unconvinced. “I don’t know. Money? Most people do things for money.”
“Yeah, now. But it wasn’t always that way. Once upon a time, your people made art.”
“My people?”
I nod. “Yeah. The Lunans. Before the Terrans came and colonized Earth and turned it into Terra, Humanity made art. It’s so baked into your genetic material that there are cave paintings of cows and stuff.”
“Cows and stuff,” she echoes, wrinkling her nose.
I groan. “Yeah, it was a shit example, but you get the idea.”
Kallista’s arms squeeze my neck softly in a sort-of hug, which makes me grin so hard my face hurts. But then she looks down at her feet, and I can hear her swallow, and I know that whatever she’s about to say next is going to be difficult for her, so I tuck my goofy grin away for later.
