While the duration of my heats is still unpredictable, at least I now have a pretty good idea of when they’re going to happen.
So tonight, I know the heat blazing along my skin is all nerves.
Christine, of course, is totally nonplussed.
I only realize the limo has stopped when someone opens the door.
“Time for your debut,” Christine says, taking my hand and pulling me out of the limo.
Cameras flash all around us as what seems like a hundred photographers all try to get the best shot of Christine.
Her name is barked from every direction, and the wordsChristine Evansworthsoon become a strange blur.
No wonder she has the people she actually knows call her something else.
At least I’m spared the same fate, since nobody really cares about getting pictures of me unless they’re alongside Christine.
And god, she’s magnificent tonight. Wearing merciless silver Mary Jane heels that put her somewhere over six and a half feet, she towers over everyone, a radiant beacon of power and poise.
Golden silk drapes sensually over one shoulder and across her chest and hips before pooling at the ground. The vaguely Grecian style is a nod to Electra’s origin story, and with the high slit showing off her legs every time she takes a step, she couldn’t look more like a goddess.
I follow close behind her in a streetwear twist on a classic: simple slim-cut black suit; white buttonless button-down tucked in to create a deep, plunging V; thin gold chain; and black leather Chelsea boots with a chunky lug sole that I told Christine I wouldn’t be caught dead in because they cost more than my first car. She bought them for me anyway. I (not so) secretly love them.
Christine pauses at one of the customary places to pose for the paparazzi, and I dig deep to find my skills from a modeling workshop I attended when I first got to LA and was looking for any way to diversify my portfolio. Given that I have exceptional bodily awareness as a stunt performer, it’s not too hard to adapt that into some basic modeling skills.
One of the closer paparazzi practically screams at us. “Christine! Give us a shot of just you!”
“No.” Her red-lipped smirk deepens as her hand slides over my shoulder, pulling me to her side. “I won’t be doing that.”
She steers me past the next cluster of photographers, and we slowly make our way across the carpet, which sprawls along the iconic Walk of Fame.
“I’m not a child,” I grumble up at her, despite being entirely content. “You don’t need to hold my hand the whole time.”
She pauses and turns back, sliding a finger under my jaw and tilting my gaze up to hers.
Familiar warmth and pleasure blossom in my chest.
“I want you close to me,” she purrs. “Because you’remine.”
My lashes flutter, and I no longer pretend this isn’t the outcome I’m looking for when I push Christine’s buttons.
The rapid flashes around us indicate that the paparazzi are also enjoying the show.
Christine slides a cool, predatory glare over them, and they instinctively lower their cameras.
“I tire of sharing,” she says. “Let’s get inside.”
Christine keeps a hand on my shoulder as she saunters past several places we’re supposed to stop. When the paparazzi complain loudly, she fixes that piercing azure gaze on them, and they fall quiet.
We soon approach the theatre’s entrance, which is flanked by a striking ninety-foot-tall Chinese pagoda. Between red pillars as broad as a sequoia and above the shining gold front doors, a thirty-foot stone dragon relief winds elegantly skyward.
Inside the theatre is even more lavish: all crimson splashed with golden trees, and more dragons slithering along the carpet.
We head to the stage below the screen, since Christine is part of the cast group that will introduce the screening. The theatre itself is nearly full; the only empty seats are those at the center, waiting for us to take them.
Haley’s already by the stage, and she’s one of the few people who can touch me without sending Christine bristling.
Which is good, because Haley’s clinically incapable of not pouncing on me with a hug every time she sees me.
