I owed him forgiveness. A modicum of trust. A goddamn lifeline.
And I needed to find the words to say before he was no longer willing to hear them.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Zephyr
Days passed, and I settled into my new normal: working every night, practicing every day.
I didn’t go back to VIP.
I was on stage, in my silks or on my hoop, and I was content. My routines had become increasingly ambitious, though more easily imagined than executed after Maslow’s daily withdrawals.
I was weak. Hungry. Often dizzy. And what should have been dazzling became dangerous. On the third night, I blacked out only to come to a split second later, suspended by the silks wound around my leg. No one noticed, and I didn’t confess. Just kept pushing, rehearsing, and taking my place in the spotlight over and over again.
When I slept, it was on the floor in Darby’s room because his bed was small and no matter how curved or compressed he began each night, he ended it spreadeagle, arms and legs touching both sides of the mattress. But thefloor was better than the room downstairs, and I enjoyed his company, besides.
Word must have spread about my falling out with Beck because the guys all made gestures in an effort to mend my shattered heart.
Oz got tofu and prepared an assortment of vegetarian dishes. Elliot made me a paper crane like the ones hanging in his bedroom. Colt and Callum burned a CD with a playlist of country songs about heartache and revenge, and more than one discussing setting fire to someone’s truck.
Darby came up with the only gift that made me blush: a lacy bra and panties in emerald green. I hadn’t had the nerve or privacy to try them on yet. I wasn’t willing to let Darby show me how to tuck my cock and balls again, so I resolved to figure it out on my own. Eventually.
On the morning of the fourth day, I received another gift. This one came from Maslow after the daily lineup. He pulled me aside in the upstairs hall, waiting until everyone else had dispersed to shove a large paper bag into my arms.
I wasn’t deluded enough to think it was a real present. Not from him, and not considering the leering look he gave me after I peeked at the pile of gauzy fabric inside.
“Get dressed, baby boy,” Maslow said. “I’m taking you out on the town.”
He must have known I hadn’t been sleeping in the room downstairs. I hadn’t even stepped inside. Maybe this was payback—taking me to earn my keep somewhere else. On a corner. In front of strangers, with no low lights to soften the harsh glare of perception.
Judging by how sheer everything in the bag was, I wouldn’t have a scrap of modesty left. I bit my lip, trying to keep the worry off my face as I imagined being paradedaround or put on display on the street that had seemed wonderful when I was with Beck.
Now, it felt like a dream teetering into a nightmare.
Darby crept out of our room with his shower tote, always in a hurry to wash after being subjected to Maslow’s siphoning touch. The wraith stopped him with a snap.
“Luxe! I’m taking Cherry on a field trip. Do something with his face. You’ve got ten minutes.”
Darby was suspicious of the wraith’s intent, but considering I knew no more than he did and every probing question left me increasingly emotional, we spent the bulk of our allotted ten minutes in silence.
I emerged from the bathroom after a rush job of a makeover, wearing the outfit Maslow had provided.
It wasn’t an outfit, actually. Just pants made of translucent material and cut open on the sides so they billowed around my legs. They cuffed at my ankles and sat low on my hips and thankfully included a pair of underwear to conceal the necessary bits. There were sandals too, that reminded me of my aerial boots. They had solid bottoms to protect against Nevada’s scorching sidewalks, and the tops were made of strips of muslin that wrapped up my ankles.
I met Maslow at the door, where he provided the finishing touch: a choker necklace with gold chains that swagged across my shoulder to a cuff around my upper arm.
He’d never dressed me. Never picked clothes or accessories for any of my performances, and it felt like one more piece of my autonomy had been stripped away.
I was a doll.
The club’s name suggested as much, but I’d never been as keenly aware of it as when Maslow was in my face with a lit cigar pinned between his lips. He fluffed my hairand tugged on the choker until it sat straight. It was all I could do to cut my gaze aside and breathe.
Don’t cry; you’ll ruin your makeup.
We took a car. It was much smaller than Beck’s limo, and I sat in the back seat alone while Maslow rode in front with the driver. They didn’t talk to me and, while I might have benefited from listening to their conversation, I couldn’t make sense of the words.
