Golden Sunshine

You look between him and the circle rack of dresses with various floral designs. You’re overwhelmed by the options. You can’t remember the last time you picked something for yourself. You just got a bag of clothes no one wanted and sifted through it.

“I don’t… know. What about you?” You ask.

Frank chuckles and lets go of the silver streak in his black beard. He rubs his nape as he tilts his head. “I don’t know if it’s obvious but I’m not much for fashion, sug.”

You hum and bite the inside of your lip. You ponder the variety of daisies, roses, and tulips.

“Whatcha favourite colour?” He asks.

You shrug. “I guess… I can’t choose. Green? Or dark purple?” You sway nervously.

“Mm, bet ya look nice in those. What about…” He steps closer to the rack and slides around some hangers. “Errr. Isn’t that funny?” He takes out a dress with white backing and little ladybugs all over it. “Like them boxes you painted.”

You cross your arms and shrug.

“If you don’t like it–” He drawls.

“I love it but… it’s white. It’ll get dirty.”

“So? We’ll get you another.” He grins. “Nothing wrong with a bit of dirt.”

“But… no. Maybe…” You turn to the rack and grab a pale green dress with carnation like petals all over it. You don’t realise until you pull it all the way out the straps are so thin. “This is a nice colour.”

“Any colour will be nice on you.” He says. “I’m gettin’ the lady bugs, honey. You can’t stop me.”

You purse your lips. “Is it a lot…” You go to check the tag and he pulls the dress away from your grasp. “Ah, you don’t worry.” He plants his hand on the rack and faces it. “What’s your size?”

“Frank.”

“Sugar,” he grits back. “We gotta get you what you need. Shoes, sweaters, maybe a nice hat, underwear—” He swallows and snorts. “Well, I’ll let you tend to that one. Don’t wanna be… weird.”

“Um… yeah.” You cough. “I… well, do you want to pick out some dresses and I’ll find that?”

“You don’t wanna choose?”

“It’s okay. I’m not picky.”

“You should be.” He sniffs and picks out a short checkered thing with cherries here and there. “Tell me what you want, it’s yours.”

“I’m good. Promise. I’ll just… look.” You sidle away cautiously then turn.

You search around the department store and find the night wear section. Your heel throbs the more you walk around. You can feel the bandage slipping too.

There’s a basket of discount cotton panties. Some high-rise, others boy shorts. You pick out neutrals; grey, white, black, brown.

Six is enough and it’s within the sale price. You fold them in your hands and turn, nearly tipping over in surprise. Frank’s right behind you, with the basket and a hanger in hand. He shows you a sleep set in a really blue with orchid flowers printed on it. The top and shorts are both tiny.

“Whatcha think? Some ‘jamas?” He says.

“Oh?” You quickly tuck the underwear into the basket. “I guess. Maybe…” You glance around.

“Gets hot in the trailer. But maybe we can find something to help.” He offers and drops the skimpy pajamas in the basket. He’s just being nice. Like he said, he doesn’t know what he’s looking for either.

“Okay.” You agree thinly.

He grunts. “Well, I got a few things. Should be enough. I hope. I dunno.” He growls then fixes his gaze on you. “Not that you don’t look good in my shirt.”

You look down and give a brittle laugh. “Oh yeah. Thanks.”

“All good, sug. I was hoping, you got an artsy eye, I need to dress up the trailer a bit. Maybe you can help me with that.” He says.

“Oh, I’ll try…”

“Maybe I should grab a cart, huh?” He looks at the basket.

“Sure, uh…”

“I’ll meet ya up by the home stuff. How’sat?”

“Okay.” You agree again. If you just do what he says, he can’t start to hate you right.

He pats your shoulder before he goes. You turn slowly, favouring your uninjured foot, and set off, reading the overhead signs denoting the various sections of the store. HOME seems to be where you’re headed.

You go down the wide aisle and move away from other shoppers with carts, others with whining children. You dip down into an aisle with shelves and shelves of pillows and cushions. You try not to look two out of place and admire a daisy shaped cushion.

“That one?” The pillow floats off the shelf and you turn to Frank as he drops it into the cart.

“What? No! You don’t have to–”

“Wanna.” He leans on the handle of the cart. Somehow, he still feels giant to you. “I like it.”

“Frank.”

“Sugar,” he counters you again. “Need a soft blanket to wrap you up in, don’t we?”

“Hm? Oh. No. I’m okay.”

“Yeah, slept okay in the bed? Wasn’t too rough?” He asks.

“No. I… it was fine.”

“I tell ya, the couch wasn’t fine,” he pushes his shoulders back until you hear a crack.

“Sorry!”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “You know, I can sleep through a stampede.”

“Yeah, but… I could’ve been on the couch.”

“That ain’t right. That’s not how ladies should be treated.”

“Mm. I guess.” You look down. “Thank you, Frank. But… I don’t know.”

You slouch and limp past the cart, down the row of pillows. He rolls the cart after you. You stop and lift up your injured foot.

“How you feelin’? You’re walking all shaky.” He says.

“I’m okay. I just… have to go slow.”

“It’s a nasty cut you got yourself.” He insists as he stands straight. “You should rest it.”

“I’m okay.” You repeat. “I don’t wanna ruin the day.”

“Ruin? Never.” He steps around the cart. “Nah, you gotta take it easy.”

Before you can react, he scoops you up, like the night before. You yipe and he angles you down into the cart, right onto the dresses and the cushion. 

“Got room for all of ya.” He says as he pets your hair. “Ain’t goin’ home without the most important thing on the list.”

He grins and steps behind the cart again. He pushes it as you sit up and grip the edge of the cart. 

You keep the rag to your shoulder as you lean your head back. It lolls one way, then you jerk up, only for it to fall the other. The light drips down the dirt as your vision blurs. You close your eyes as the throbbing in your shoulder radiates.

A kick to your foot jolts you awake. 6T00 is screaming as soldiers hold his arm straight, another man bringing down a thick blade to sever the hand. Quickly, a blow torch roars to life and cauterizes the stump. The prisoner passes out, left face down in the dirt, his arm in the puddle of blood, and 35B4 vomits between their knees.

The single oppio and his obedient decanus soldiers leave, the metal door slamming and sending down a dusting of dirt on you. You stay as you are, weak, worn, waiting for it to end. Your eyes drift again and you let them droop entirely.

When you rouse again 6T00 is gone. A soldier stands over 35B4, his back to you, and she whimpers. “No, please.”

“It won’t last long.” He snickers.

Your insides churn and you sink again into mindless disparity. You blink and 35B4 is shaking against the wall in a heap. Her pants are gone. You look down at yourself. A ragged stale line of blood extends all the way to your jacket hem and through to the top of your pants.

The heat blares into the hole. Your fellow prisoner is carried out sobbing by a soldier you haven’t seen before. Your head drops forward and you shudder. It’s the best option to just bleed out.

“Those were not my orders.” The grizzly snarl rouses you a countless time. Your eyes slit open and you stare at your lap.

“Tribunus, we questioned them–”

“You played with your food.” The other man barks. “Get the fuck away from me before I do the same.”

“Tribunus,” the inferior man recites and retreats through the sole door.

Thick treads crunch in the dry dirt. You catch a glimpse of the scuffed boots at the edge of your vision. They pace around the parameter of the open air cell, around the dried blood and the lines in the dirt from the struggle. He sighs and stops across from you.

He marches across the cell and squats. He grabs your chin and lifts your head. His icy grey blue eyes flicker in surprise as they meet yours.

He hums. Your lashes flutter as he holds the weight of your head in his hand. His jaw clenches and his cheeks tick. His throat bobs above the black collar of his Tribunus uniform. Unlike other soldiers, there are no metals or ribbons or decorations, not even the tasseled epaulettes of the higher ranks.

He lets your chin go and inspects the tear in your jacket. He touches your wound. It burns. You whimper. He reaches down to take the blood-stained rag from your limp hand and scratches away the crust around the tortured flesh. A scratch noise rolls up his throat.

“Fuck.” He sneers as he pulls back.

He stands and tucks the rag in his belt. He takes three steps one way, six the other, then circles back to you. He bends and stares at you. Your head sways and rolls forward.

His hands graze up your sides and he hooks his arms under yours. He lifts you. You dangle from his grasp as he angles you around and scoops you up. The tension in his body is rigid against you. Your head hangs back, your eyes closed, your body drained. He carries you like it's nothing into the abyss of your weary unconscious.

⚫

A coolness wells in your veins. You float up from beneath the heavy shroud and into a cloudy plain of confusion. Your mind rejoins your body; you feel your fingers, your toes, arms, legs, and the pulsing agony above your chest. You feel the softness against your skin and the cushion beneath your weight.

Dead. Is this what you were afraid of? Is this the true escape? A senseless epiphany at the expense of your life.

“Open your eyes.” A low grit commands.

Your finger twitches and you wince. You obey. A man stands at the foot of the bed you lay on. You can’t remember the last time you felt a real mattress beneath you.

It’s him. The Tribunus. All in black. No shine, no colour. His wool cap looks out of place with the stiff cut of his military jacket. He grips the footboard of the bed.

You stare back at him. His cold eyes graze over you. His expression doesn’t change. There is no humour in him.

“Do you know how much that plasma is worth?” He nods his head.

You blink and look down at the IV tube in your arm. You follow the length up to the bag on the stand next to you. You turn your head straight again.

“N-n–” You struggle to get any sound out from your dry mouth.

“No. You don’t.” He says. “If my men weren’t…” he trails off.

You shift and flinch in pain. You let out a pained moan. He steps around the bed and marches along the side. He grabs the top of the plain cotton shirt and tugs it down. The open back allows the fabric to droop and expose your chest as his other hand comes up to check the edges of the bandage.

You reflexively try to push the cotton back over your tits. He yanks and swats you.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” He scoffs.

You shiver and look up at him.

“You have bold eyes, pleb.” He rebukes.

You look away.

“Plasma, gauze, medical tape, sutures, not to mention labour, the effort to bring in the surgeon.” He lists off each item on his fingers; his gloves black and without tips. “We all must pay our debts.”

You frown and try to close your hands. Your fingers curl then release. You slacken against the pillows again. He grabs the top of the shirt and pulls it back up, his grip lingering for a moment before he draws back.

As the years passed, his most trusted men regularly mentioned that Curtis needed to get a wife and produce some heirs.

He ruled with an iron hand, but he knew he can't only be feared, but also provide a sense of stability and continuity for the men and families in the wide web of the mob. Having his own family would paint that picture and reassure everyone that his empire - which they saw as theirs, since they were immersed in it - would continue.

There was an array of mafia princesses to pick from. Most of them barely over eighteen, or in very early twenties, since for reasons not quite understandable to Curtis the families were so impatient to marry off their daughters as soon as possible.

He could, perhaps, understand it from the strategic point of view. But it didn't stir anything beside awkwardness and irritation, if he thought of getting himself a barely legal wife.

It kind of crept him out, actually.

So he dispassionately browsed the memorized troops of mafia linked women, making his own choice to stick to those over twenty three at least.

He wasn't thinking about that, however, when he was having dinner with his closest friends at Tanya's. Boasting a newly acquired Michelin star, mafia owned restaurant kept a private table for him at any time he wished.

Curtis was actually quite relaxed that night, snorting at his younger brother's antics and laughing at the good-natured mockery Kyril lobbed back at Edgar.

That's when you unexpectedly found yourself on his radar.

It wasn't even your doing, at first. It was your date, actually. Some pretty looking, clean-shaven man, who tried to play moderately confident, but clearly was a little nervous to find himself in a restaurant of that caliber.

He knocked down the cutlery and the tinkling sound of it resounded through the room, drawing curious glances.

Your quiet laughter followed.

It was a lovely kind of laugh - easy, a bit teasing, but with warmth to it that immediately boosted the man's confidence.

Curtis was about to avert his gaze, not interested in a civilian couple having a date (possibly one of the first dates, if the boy wanted to impress you). But he lingered a second longer on your face and his mind immediately supplied him with a mental portfolio on you.

You were a mafia born. Your family not the closest to the inner circle, nor with much influence, but your father and uncle have always been loyal and honorable.

And there you were, on a date with someone who was not of your world.

Curtis frowned, as he assessed or the details he knew about you. Like the fact you were older than the rest of the marriageable women within the mafia ranks and you were still unmarried. Not even dating anyone from the mob.

He felt sudden irritation. Not at the fact that you weren't married yet. No, that was actually becoming the most approved aspect. That whip of annoyance was at the realization that you were attempting to step out of the line. Out of mafia's clutches.

Out of his grasp.

He shouldn't have cared who you married, since your bloodline didn't entail significant influence, but as he watched the pretty boy touch your hand something inside him roared in anger.

Perhaps it was about a civilian, someone from the outside, trying to worm his way into the circle of blood and vows that went generations back. Or maybe it was you thinking that you can leave mafia connections behind and pretend to be content with a white picket fence life with a bland insurance agent.

Maybe it was the fact you broke away from the mold most mafia princesses were groomed into; daring to act bold and free and happy with small things.

Like sitting there and smiling, and laughing, while having a conversation, instead of holding a cold facade of being unbothered that you are in a fancy restaurant. You didn't seem to expect the world to fall at your feet; nor were you quiet and sweetly fake to appease your date.

A date who was really grating on Curtis' nerves the longer he flirted with you and touched you. A pathetic fool thinking he could poach something that belonged to Curtis.

Curtis remained calm; he always did, until the situation really called for the storm inside of him to be unleashed.

"Edgar," he gave a short call, but in a tone that had everyone at the table stilling.

Curtis lifted a tumbler of vodka on ice, tilting it towards the direction of your table, before bringing it to his lips.

"Find out everything you can on that man. Background check for now, no personal visits needed. Not yet."

His brother nodded, not questioning the unexpected demand. Kyril was looking at you and your date with a seemingly detached indifference.

"That's Enzo's daughter." He recognized you. "You think the weasel with her is a plant?"

“Back,” he commands gently. You doubt he is the same way with his men.

The dog obeys but keeps her nose slightly over the back of the seat. You try not to be obvious as you observe the path of the vehicle. The gates that open before the bumper and the uniformed men guarding them.

Then there’s the house. A mansion. Not the boxy crumbling facade of the colony barracks but a lavish exterior with lush hedges shaped and trimmed and ornaments in the vein of Roman art. It’s like a dream, something that no longer exists, but you know it can only be a nightmare.

The Legate undoes his seatbelt as the vehicle draws to a stop. You look over but not at him. His door opens from the outside and he’s greeted by a man with an optio’s badge. The soldier keeps his eyes averted as The Legate does not move.

“Her first. She is a lady.” He insists.

The man’s eyes flick to you and his gaze narrows before retreating. “Apologies, Noble Legate–”

“What was that?” Legate Augustus seizes the man’s jaw with his large hand. “What was that look you gave her?”

“Noble Legate, I did not–”

“No, I saw it. I did not miss the way your brow moved. How you judged. Her? You do not know her.” He squeezes so that the man squirms. “I do not ask you to judge. I command you to obey without thought.”

You quickly look down and stare at your hands as you grip them together even tighter. Lupa lets out a low growl behind you. The Legate’s weight leaves the car and the man grunts, his body hitting the ground with a thump.

“Optio, you have earned a new assignment. I hear the drought land requires further oversight.”

“Noble Legate,” the man pleads.

“Do not make me send you to the south.” The Legate warns and the man grunts again, the impact of something blunt forcing his breath from his chest.

The door closes and a shadow moves around the vehicle. The door on your side opens and you wince. You bring your clasped hands up.

“Noble Legate,” you see the sigil on the ring on his hairy knuckle. “Forgive my inaction.”

“Do not. You do not require my forgiveness.” He reaches to undo your seatbelt. “Come.”

He offers his hand. You don’t hesitate, even as your mind and body fracture in fear. You put your hand in his and he helps you step down.

“Bos,” he booms as he signals with his other hand.

Another man appears. Another optio, this one with a ribbon next to his badge. He opens the hatch to let out Lupa. The dog comes to your side sniffs your loose hand.

“I’ve had a long day. As you have.” The Legate waves you forward, clinging to you as he falls into step. “Rest is in order.”

“As you bid, Noble Legate. I will heed.” You can barely speak. Lupa licks your palm.

“She senses your unease. I unsettle you.” He says.

You swallow. “Noble Legate, I only… abide my rank.”

“Forget that.” He demands. “If you were still a pleb, you would remain in the colony.”

His words confuse you. If that is not what you are, then what are you? What is his intent? You know better than to think it could be anything good.

“Understood, Noble Legate.”

He exhales as you approach a set of curved steps that stretch before a set of double doors. Immunes stand at the top and open the door as the Legate guides you upward. He squeezes your hand.

“I have told you what to call me.” He says.

You trip over your toes. You steady yourself as he turns to catch your other shoulder. You stare at his jacket.

“And I’ve told you to look at me,” he warns.

Your brain is on fire. Every instinct is wailing in alert. You have to listen but you can’t. It’s all wrong.

You slowly lift your head and look at him. “I apologise… Au… gust.”

His head tilts and his blue eyes linger on yours. He lets go of your shoulder and gently brushes his knuckles along your chin. “That is good.”

He slowly angles his hand around to cup your chin. You tremble and he once more squeezes your hand. “I have not hurt you and do not mean to. No need to be afraid.” He drops his hand but keeps yours in his other. “Lupa likes you. I can rarely deny her what she wants.”

He turns and drags you along. You don’t let yourself fall behind. Lupa is close, rubbing her head into her head. You pet her, if only to calm yourself.

The Legate leads you up the centre staircase which divides two curving arms around the edge of the foyer. Everything about this place is a startling contrast to the colony’s desolate degradation. It makes you sick to your stomach.

He leads you up to the second floor and along a hallway. Lupa slips ahead of you as you turn the corner and stops at a set of doors at the very end. When you catch up, The Legate opens the right door. He lets go of your hand and trails his touch up your arm, nudging you inside.

The room is as immaculate as the rest of this place. Above the large mouth of a marble fireplace is a portrait of the man behind you. Stoic, stern, all-seeing. The furniture is polished and perfect. The carpet ivory with a deep crimson pattern.

The walls are lined with tall arched windows, one a set of glass doors that open out onto a stone balcony. Across from the fireplace is another door; thick, white wood. You assume there must be a bedroom or something behind it.

The Legate shuts the door and strides around the room. Lupa sits on your feet as you hug yourself and sway. You glance over at the sharp and sudden clink of glass. Legate Augustus pours amber liquor from a decanter into crystal glasses. He puts the cap in place and sets down the square bodied vessel.

“Come and drink. It will help you.” He says. “Lupa can sense your energy.”

You swallow. “Yes, Noble– August.” You correct yourself and cross the room. He holds out a glass and you reach for it. He doesn’t let go right away, clinging to it until you look at him in the face. “Thank you.” You say.

The dog is at your other side, your hand in her fur as each time you draw away, she circles back for more. She's comforting but nothing can dissipate the anxiety, the fear, this man inspires. You notice how the soldier, decanus, immunes, even centurion, salute then shy away. You remain unseen as the men only see him; only care about him.

“I suppose an introduction would be redundant.” He says.

“Noble Legate.” You bow your head deeper.

He hums. “The hours were not lost. My men have inspected this place, top to bottom. A habit they tend to slack on.”

You remain quiet. You know better than to speak without purpose or permission. Besides, what can you say to him that would ever mean anything?

“So… that was my day,” he puts his large hands behind him. “And you were away? At market again?”

You hesitate. You cannot ignore a question but you find it difficult to find your voice. “Noble Legate, my assignment was the drought land.”

He hums again. He mulls your answer.

“Doing what, exactly?”

Your hand shakes and Lupa licks it. You swallow and exhale slowly. “Digging. Bunds.” You eke out the words crisply. “Noble Legate.”

He sighs and brings his arms forward, crossing them over his chest. He walks on. His shoes are dusty but you can tell they aren’t well-worn. Not like your peeling soles.

“We are having a conversation. August is acceptable.” He states.

“Noble…” your voice drifts off. You wouldn’t dare say his name. You match his stride and languish in silence.

“And you?”

You bite down. You don’t know what he means.

“What is your name?” He asks.

Your heart pumps fast. You remember it but it doesn’t feel real. It feels like something you made up. You don’t own anything, not even a name. You have a number and a pair of boots.

“8E15.” You recite.

He sniffs. “Not that. Your real name. The one from before.”

Before? Before was long ago. You were sixteen when the world changed. Now, you’re not sure. You’re older and just as scared. You just know how to control it. How to keep it inside. 

Subconsciously, your hand travels to your lower stomach, that place where hot metal seared. Then you pull away and hang your arms stiffly again. Lupa once more nuzzles into your hand.

“8E15–”

“Name. Not number.” He insists bluntly.

You trip at the tenor of his voice. He’s quick to catch you. You gasp and wrench away from him. He lets you go and you raise your hands in fright. You tremble as you show your palms and drop to your knees.

“Forgive me. I was not expecting–” You choke on your plea. Begging never got you anywhere. You put your palms up and extend your arms. Don’t whine, just take the punishment.

Nothing happens. You stare at the dirt and wait. The Legate stands across from you and his dog pokes her head up between your arms and licks your cheeks.

“Lupa,” he calls her.

He grabs your wrist and tugs. You stand. He pulls you right in front of him, the dog still between you.

“I want your name.” He says.

You stare at the dog’s fur. You can’t. You can feel the familiar thing in the back of your mind but you can’t latch on.

“I don’t know. They call me by my number.” You quaver out. “Noble Legate, call me what you will.”

He lets you go and pushes back his jacket to grip his hips. You shrink down. He clicks his tongue.

“If you will not tell me your name, you will look at me.” He commands.

Your hands ball up to fists and you pin them to your sides. Your shoulders rise with tension and your knees wobble. If you look at a decanus in the face, they use the club. An Optio might even use a knife for the offense.

But to disobey, someone as powerful as the Legate, would be far worse. You must. He has given an order. Even if it feels wrong, you have no choice.

You lift your chin as your eyes stay downward. You hold your breath and force your gaze up. You see him; dark hair, a curl over his forehead, a thick straight mustache, dark stubbles; a thick neck beneath his high collar and broad shoulders that speak the power behind his title. A quick flick of your irises before you give in to instinct and look down again.

His finger taps on his belt then he drops his hands. Lupa turns and sits, resting her head against your stomach as she stares up at you. Her tail sweeps the ground as it wags incessantly.

“She won’t let me go without you.” He says.

You don’t move. What does he mean?

He leans in and reaches for you. He takes your hand and moves your stiff arm. He puts your hand on the dog. He guides you to pet her then lets go. You scratch behind her ear as she groans in delight.

“We will retrieve your possessions and you will be removed from the camp roster.” He says.

You focus on the dog. His words are too frightening to fathom. You’ve seen people leave one of two ways; for the pits where they will die or dead in the back of a truck.

“You do not ask why? Or where you will go?” He challenges.

“No, Noble Legate. I obey.” You recite, that twinge that comes each time you surrender still flickering in your gut.

“Take me to your quarters. It is late already.” He commands.

“Yes, Noble Legate.”

He growls in his throat. “Lupa, back up. Come.”

The dog relents and stands at his heels. You feel him watching, waiting. You turn back and lead him through the camp. The soldiers watch and greet him with proper salutes and stances. Others like you scatter and hide before they can meet rebuke.

You stop at your block. Legate Augustus examines the bricks.

“Inside.” He prompts.

You’re surprised. You didn’t think he meant so far. You take him inside, the decanus at the door addressing him with respect.

“Upstairs. The second floor, Noble Legate.” You dare not walk ahead of him.

“You first.” He insists.

“Yes, Noble Legate.” You utter.

You go upstairs, innately aware of him behind you. You take him down the corridor to your shared quarters. He follows you inside. Those in their cots nearly tip them as they quickly get to their knees and bow their heads.

You don’t have much. You would have said so but it’s best not to say more than he asks. You open your locker and take out your can of peanuts, a sleeve with only three crackers, a head scarf, and the needle stuck into the remaining length of leather cord.

You turn back to the legate. He startles you as his large hands cradles yours. He takes the canister of peanuts and shakes it. He makes a gritty noise and gives it back.

“That all?” He asks.

It’s more than some have.

“Yes, Noble Legate.”

He drops his hands. Lupa sniffs around the room as the other occupants cower away from her. You grip your things tight.

“Let’s go.”

The Legate turns and strides to the door, not a single glance to his audience. You follow and peek over. Your cot mate stares at you in concern. You’ve never seen an ounce of emotion from them before. That unsettles you more.

You go with the legate back outside. Lupa stays close to you. He takes you through the camp to the gates. The large black vehicles wait in a line, centurions and immunes milling around restlessly until they see the Legate.

“Past time we leave,” he addresses a centurion in their red jacket.

The centurion walks with him to one of the boxy SUVs and opens the back door. Before you can react, the Legate turns and grabs your arm. He as good as lifts you and puts you inside. He quickly spins to stop Lupa from following.

“Ah, you know better,” he tuts and points her away.

The centurion approaches. Lupa growls but her master commands her to go with him. The hatch behind you opens and she hops inside, poking her head over the seat to sniff you. The Legate climbs in. He closes the door and pushes down a button. A screen rises between the back and front seats.

“You had a long day. You may rest. It will be a long drive.” He says flatly.

Your eye flits over at the movement of his hand. He grips above his knee, his middle finger dragging up and down. You shove what you can in your pockets and keep the canister in your lap. You close your eyes.

You feel so stupid. You knew the bathing suit wouldn’t hold up. You just didn’t speak up for yourself, too embarrassed to point out the mismatch between the style and your body. There’s nothing wrong with your body despite the pressures of LA, you just know how to dress it.

You grab a towel and wrap it around yourself. You face your reflection and quietly pep yourself up. This is Venice, it’s exciting. It was just a little blip, that’s all.

The knock at the door is quicker than your courage. “Hey, sweetheart, everything okay?”

You cringe. “Sure. I was just…” Your voice trails off and you flick back the lock below the handle. You slowly open the door. “Um… I didn’t get water all over, did I?”

“Nah,” he shrugs. He has a towel around his neck, his torso peek out all muscled and perfect. “All good. I was just thinking about time.” His eyes skim up and down. Or maybe it’s all in your head. “Dinner?”

“Right, uh… Yeah. Pasta…”

“Well, it’s Italy, right?” He winks. “I was gonna pick out something to wear… hoped to get a second opinion…”

“Oh, right. Sure, uh… I’m not really a fashion person.” You step out cautiously, hugging the towel.

“Really? You always look so good.” He praises.

You scoff. “You’ve mostly seen me at work in my apron.”

“Ha, guess I didn’t really think about it. But still, we should coordinate, huh?” He gestures you past him.

“Okay. I can… try.”

You follow him into the large main bedroom with the doors that open onto the veranda. You notice his bags and yours. He must have moved them. He hangs his towel over the back of a chair and goes to the closet to slide it open; his clothes are all hung up. And yours…

When did all this happen?

“So… green?” He pulls out an olive satin button up with short sleeves. “Too green? Does it make me look yellow?”

You focus on the material as he holds it against him.

“I like it.” You say.

“What about this?” He switches it out for a similar style in lavender with little flowers embroidered into it. “Does it bring out my eyes?”

You hug the towel and rock. “You have really blue eyes.”

His cheek dimples.

“Maybe something simpler. Just white?” He trades for a linen white shirt.

“Um, they’re all nice.” You smile.

“Okay, I’m gonna go with simple.” He puts the shirt aside and picks out some greyish purple slacks. “What about you?”

He turns and moves some hangers. Your cotton tees and jean shorts don’t really go. “Oh, well, I don’t think I have anything fancy…” You touch the floral print cotton, the only thing that looks halfway okay.

“What if I told you I had a surprise?” He rests his hand on the bar.

“Oh…”

“Well, my assistant already went to the boutique, so…”

You cringe.

“What’s that face?” He teases.

“I just… feel like I owe you. That’s… all.”

“Nah, I told you. It’s my pleasure.”

“Mhm,” you twiddle your fingers. “Right, uh…” You fall into silence as you once more slip back to earlier and the pool. You grip the top of the towel tightly.

“Hey, really, it’s nothing. No thank’s needed.” He reaches behind his clothes. “I told her you look good in red. It was a guess.”

He pulls out a satin wrap dress with thin straps. The skirt splits like the petals of a tulip. It’s a gorgeous colour and a gorgeous cut but you’d never choose it yourself.

“Wow, that’s… pretty.”

“Prettier on, I’m sure,” he grins as he holds it out. “Well, I did make a reservation and I can’t go with pool hair, huh?”

“Um, I guess not,” you take the hanger. “Thank you, it’s… too nice.”

-

The boat glides over the water. Instead of the autobus, Nick opted for one of the smaller gondolas. It’s a cozy fit as you sit next to him and the driver pushes through with his single paddle. A flicker of light catches your eye and you crane to see behind you.

“You forget something?” Nick asks, his arm behind yours, his hand nestled just beside your thigh, on the edge of his.

“No, no, I just…” you let your eyes graze along the sky. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Not too bad when you get a chance to appreciate it.” he says.

You hold back a sigh. You do appreciate it, all of it. More than you can say and yet it seems even saying so wouldn't be enough.

The water stirs softly around the boat, voices carry from others aboard their vessels, and the breeze flows by. A tickle on your forearm makes you jump. You look at Nick as the boat reacts to your movement.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod. “Just taking it all in.”

His fingertips brush down and graze your hand. His touch lingers then he pulls away. The gondola nears the steps built into the side of the canal.

The driver helps you out and Nick follows. He gently nudges your back as you step up to the street and points you down the cobblestone. You approach the front of a restaurant built onto the canal front.

He lets you through first. The hostess inside gives you lazy look then all at once, snaps up to attention. She approaches you frantically.

“Mr. Fowler,” she greets. “I heard you were back in the country.”

He steps up next to you, his hand at the small of your back. “Work.” He says. “I have a table.”

“Yes, sir, it's waiting.”

She turns and quickly beckons him after her. He urged you ahead of him. You can feel how the satin hem tickles your thighs with each move.

The hostess guides you through the ambient restaurant with its dimmed lights and pulsing candelabras. You weave between tables to one set up on an open archway looking out onto the water. A canopy of flowers is strung over the arch and tea lights are set around and over the table.

Nick pulls out a chair for you. You sit. The setup is beautiful. Too beautiful. Nick takes the seat across from you.

“Georgio said he sent out for the wine?” He prompts the hostess.

“We have it all ready, Mr. Fowler.” She assures.

You grab another crate. You quickly count the inventory. Not a piece short or it will be on you. You place it on the table and it’s once more dragged across. Celer signals with a fist then a V between his index and middle finger. There’s a stir as the crowd shifts around Optio Ursus, the commander of the quadrant.

The green ration card is passed back and forth. Two soldiers, Immunes with their blue epaulettes their jackets  stand behind the man on the other side of the table. His eyes flick back and forth nervously. The number sewn into his canvas jacket is faded. Your own isn’t in much better shape. Like you, they don’t have a name. Just a number.

“Counterfeit,” Ursus proclaims sternly. “Arrest this fraud. This thief.”

You back up and watch the nervous still break into chaos. The Immunes seize the man and he hollers. “It’s not. It’s real, it’s real!”

“Insect!” Ursus pulls the club from his belt and swings across the table, striking the maan in his temple. “I did not permit you to speak.” The Optio wags his club. “Upstart peasants. Do you know the consequence for thievery?”

You do. You’ve seen it. The woman you trade out your cot with every other night bears that mark. She is not permitted on placements outside the colony. She must stay and make due trading scrap.

The Immuness wrestle the man as he struggles dizzily against them. A crate of loaves is dumped uncaringly onto the ground, flipped to pin his arm to as he begs and sobs.

“It is real. It was allotted by Optio Aquila.” He snivels. “Please, please.”

“Be quiet or your tongue shall be lopped off too!” Ursus snarls and slings his club from his belt, feeling around until he grips the dagger there. “You’ll want to be still lest I cut the whole arm.”

The Optio snickers as those around gape or pretend not to see. Most stare at their feet. The Immunes keep the man trapped.

Ursus lifts his arm. There is a murmur before he can descend. He pauses and looks toward the snakish roil in the crowd. More blue epaulettes appear and Immuness divide the crowd. A pathway clears for a man in a long black jacket, his collar high and stiff, his boots leather and shining. A chain dangles across the open front of his coat, two large sapphires pinned to his lapels.

Those with numbers on their chests, get to their knees. You too. You’ve never been in the presence of a Legate but you know one on sight. The sapphires, the clothing, the posture. It’s plain even before Ursus greets him by name.

“Legate Augustus.” His voice nearly quavers. “When did you arrive? I was not informed you’d be attending the market.”

“And why should I tend to the masses?” The Legate’s deep voice sends a chill through you despite the dusty warmth of the pending noon. “As any man of the people might.”

“Certainly, Legate, I do not question your purpose. Only I am surprised at your presence.” Ursus panders.

“And what is this scene you make? I see wasted bread and terrified people.” The Legate rebukes. “This is not the order I read of in your report.”

“Legate, this man is a thief. It is him who has brought chaos–”

“So you would raise a furor? Startle those come for their rations?” The Legate interjects. “Criminals are to be detained and tried. Not beaten and mauled as animals.”

You stare at the ground. The tension in the air is suffocating. His words are not so noble as he pretends. Every person there has witnessed or perpetrated the contrary. A hand severed is far from the worst of atrocities in the colonies.

“Take this man to be heard by a praetor and determine if he will wear the thieves mark.” The legate commands. “Ursus, you will balance this loss from your own ledger.”

Your eyes peek up through your lashes as the Legate gets to a knee and gathers up the overturned stock. He piles it in and lifts it easily, shoving it at Ursus. “People, to your feet, to work.”

At once, you rise with the others on assignment. You fall back into action as those in line move up and hand over their green tickets. Your stomach growls again. You’ll get a full loaf for the assignment but not until the day is done.

As you turn again and place a crate out, you’re surprised by the gleam of light that singes your vision. You stare down the camera lens, shocked. The man behind it holds down the shutter and you hide in your work, back to the photographer.

You notice him move to the other side of the stall and aim his lens again. You peek over briefly. The legate shakes hands with Celer. It must be some sort of act. They are staging those in line, giving them commands.

An Immunes grabs the crate in your hands. You cling to it then let go. They put it back on the stack and seize your arm. They turn you then shove you back.

“Not her.”

They march away and grab another woman, P0L14. They examine her and drag her over. They pull you out of the way and put her by the stack of crates. Another camera emerges from the crowd.

Ceres smacks your shoulder. “To work.” You look at him then the Immunes and P0L14. “Go work on the truck, dumb woman.”

You evade his hand a second time and hurry off towards the cargo lot. You help unload the heads of cabbage and hand them off for inspection. The work is slow as heads crane to observe the market scene.

“... Augustus…” a whisper repeats across lips.

“...telling more lies…” one dares to suggest.

You keep your head down. You put cabbages into crates; rotting and slightly less rotting. One hits the corner and rolls over the edge of the table. Darn it.

You bend down to retrieve it but before you can, it moves. A set of fangs sink into the leafy ball. You hold out your hands but hesitate to wrestle the cabbage away from the large dog. Their fur is longer and fluffy, pointed ears, a black head and white around its stomach, legs, and chest. Their eyes are dark and menacing.

A head of cabbage could cost you yours. You go to grab it and the dog dodges away. No! You crawl under the table and stagger to your feet on the other side to follow them. You rush by several other workers and behind one of the canvas covered trucks.

“Hey, hey, doggy,” you call after the dog. You squint to get a good look. “Hey, girl. Please, can I have that back?”

You reach out, palm up, and walk forward cautiously as the dog stops and stares at you.

“You don’t want that. It’s bitter and grimy.” You plead with her, knowing she can’t understand. “Please…”

The dog drops the cabbage and rushes back toward you. You freeze in panic and watch wide-eyed as she charges. You close your eyes and brace for your demise.

The coolness in your hand makes you squeak. You look nervously through the slits of your eyelid. The dog nuzzles your hand then rubs her face into your palm.

“Oh, you… want pets?” You feel along her soft fur. She can’t be feral. She’s too well fed and groomed. You scratch behind her ear and she leans into your hand.

You offer your other and she lets you pet her with both. That knot around your heart slowly loosens. You can’t remember the last time you met anyone or anything friendly. The corners of your lips curve up, just a little.

“That’s it, girl. You’re a good girl. I wish I could give you something. Even that rotten cabbage.” You coo at her.

“Lupa.” A deep voice booms over you.

You turn as your expression falls back to neutral. It’s him. Legate Augustus. You get only a glimpse before you drop your eyes and get down to your knees. As you lower yourself, the dog licks your cheek and tries to sit in your lap, much too big to do so. She knocks you over onto your but and you land on your back in the dirt.

“Lupa,” the Legate calls again as he stomps up to you. Your heart is pounding. “Off.” The dog relents. “Sit.”

The dog obeys. You push yourself up and the Legate offers his hand. You stare at his thick fingers. Only for a second then you once more make yourself familiar with the dirt.

“Noble Legate,” you get up to your knees on your own and cower, hands on your thighs as you grip tight.

He rescinds his hand slowly, his shadow sighing beside you. You feel his gaze but don’t dare look up to check if he really is watching. You only look as far as his boots.

“She doesn’t usually make friends.” He says. “Consider yourself lucky to be alive.” He backs up and snaps his fingers. “Lupa, to me.”

You’d signed with Emily at Frozen Edge Sports when you were only eighteen years old, and she’d become too much of a friend to end your relationship the easy way. It would just hurt less if you didn’t have to see the pity in her eyes up close. 

You’d been skating since you were five years old. Your father pushed you into it, but at a certain point, you’d become the one putting pressure on yourself. It never occurred to you for all those years, but you’d given up your entire childhood for one thing. 

You’d won your first U.S. championship at eleven years old. The best day of your entire life was not qualifying for this year’s Olympics, but when you won Bronze at the World Junior Figure Skating Championships when you were fifteen years old.

You'd nearly killed yourself that season. You begged your parents to homeschool you so you could spend more hours at the rink, and you even turned down Stephan Greenwoon, the heartthrob of Arlington Catholic's Cougars hockey team—when he asked you to be his date to junior prom.

It had all been for nothing because at the young age of twenty-two, you were officially a has-been. 

That’s what four torn ligaments in your right knee can do to a bright future. 

Despite the surgeries and the intensive physical therapy, your light continued to dim. Although you eased back into practicing again, you just couldn’t seem to land the jumps that helped you qualify in the first place. Your sponsors were kind and waited a few months before they broke their contracts. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t making Emily, the main person keeping your career afloat, any more money. 

Your own money would run out soon, and your parents' help only went so far in a city as expensive as Boston. You'd thought about putting your bachelor's degree in Communications to use, a degree you had no passion for and no idea what to do with. Your Olympics-destined best friend, Anna, was kind and paying more than her fair share of rent right now to help you out. She was waiting for you to snap out of your funk, and honestly, you hoped something would change too.

The nearby elevator dinged, and you avoided eye contact with whoever was stepping out. As the person walked past you, you were hit with the smell of expensive cologne. He approached the secretary's desk, and your eyes lifted as the deep timbre of his voice reached your ears. “Hey, I have a ten a.m. appointment with David and Emily.” 

“Of course. I’ll let them know you’re here, Mr. Graham.”

Your brows raised at that. His eyes turned towards you just as the confusion spread across your face. His face was familiar, chiseled, and sculpted by dark curls. A duffel bag with the Bruins’ logo hung at his side, as if he’d just arrived from practice. 

That didn’t make sense. You had a ten o’clock appointment with Emily. And it was about twelve minutes past that time. 

“Hey.” His smile stretches at the sight of you, and your heart pounds as you realize he’s walking up to you. “You must be Y/N. I’m Garrett.” 

Garrett Graham. The Bruins' rookie center. All six feet of him. 

It takes too long for you to realize he’s holding his hand out to you. He appears professional, composed, and nothing like his reputation. You stand, smoothing down your gray athleisure set, and you politely shake his hand, “Uh, hi. Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m a big fan,” He admits, still managing to sound cool and not like a fan at all. “I watched your routine at the U.S. Championships. The one where you skated to that Lana Del Rey song. It was insane.”

Your lips part in shock. You’re not sure how long it’s been since someone gave you a compliment that wasn’t covered in layers of condescension.

"You watched figure skating?"

"I watched you."

He laughed before the words could become awkward.

"I mean, I don't know much about the sport, but that routine was incredible. I was sorry to hear about your injury.”

“Yeah…”

“You back on the ice yet?”

“Oh, um,” The dreaded question. You keep your face from falling and smile sheepishly, awkwardly, “A little bit. Not too much. Still can’t put much weight on my right knee, but I’ve still been trying to support the other girls while they train.”  

You’d been cleared to start training lightly, but your knee had another thing to say. You couldn't even count how many times you wiped out the last time you were on the ice. 

He gives you a look that’s more empathetic than you expect: “Well, that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” You agree, “It does.” 

Your agent's door opens seconds later, and Emily appears, waving the two of you into her office. “Do you know what’s going on?” You ask Garrett as he walks beside you. Why in the world is Garrett Graham joining in on your final meeting with your agent? 

“Uhm,” He presses his lips together as he decides to think over his words carefully, “I think it’s better if you hear it from Emily.”

What the fuck is going on? 

The two of you join Emily and David, who you learn is Garrett’s agent. It becomes pretty clear as the mundane introductions occur that you’re the only one who has no idea why all four of you are meeting.

Every time she opens her mouth, you expect her to finally explain.

She never does.

David is the one who eventually decides to stop pretending.

David, an old white man whose look is so corporate it actually frightens you, is the one who decides to cut to the chase. He’s balding, overweight, and he stands in contrast to Emily, who’s tall, blonde, and a former Olympic swimmer. 

“We’d like to arrange a mutually beneficial relationship between the two of you."

Your heart drops to your stomach.

"We’re all aware that your injury, Ms. Y/L/N, is likely going to prevent you from competing in the Olympics. That means many of the sponsorship opportunities previously arranged for you are no longer guaranteed. Millions of dollars in potential earnings are now at risk."

You sit completely still.

"Talent and good character, which you still have, are important to our agency. But relevance is also a factor in this industry. By establishing a romantic relationship with Mr. Graham, we believe you’ll be able to maintain public interest and preserve some of the opportunities that may otherwise disappear.”

The room goes silent, your heart fully stops beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a breath.

Is this a worse fate than being fired?

Being told that you're no longer valuable?

Knowing the only way you’ll have a career is if you become a rookie hockey player’s girlfriend for clout? 

“Emily," You force your voice from your throat. "What is he talking about?”

“I think this is the best option for you, Y/N."

Shame floods your features as your body goes rigid. Your hand instinctively drops to your right knee, your fingers tracing the scar there, pressing against the place where the pain still lingers even though your injury has technically healed.

“I want the best for you. I’m trying to find a way for you to maintain your lifestyle, your fans, and your financial security while you figure out what comes next.” 

Garrett chimes in when another silence settles over the room, “I don’t mean to be rude. This sounds great and all. I’m just not sure what I’m getting out of all of this.”

“Credibility,” Emily answers, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You have two different reputations. Y/N, you’re recognizable, poised, and charitable. You’re a good girl. And Garrett…”

She looks back at him.

"You’re talented, but you’re also seen as cocky. Hot-headed. The new rookie with something to prove."

"You think she balances me out?"

Garrett nods, as if he’s truly considering this. “You’re not serious?”

He looks over.

“What?” He lifts his hands slightly, confused. “You’re not considering this?”

He had everything to gain. Your life was slipping through your hands as the days passed. 

Emily continues, eyes focused on you, as if she were desperate for you to understand her point of view. “There are a lot of details for us to work out. There’s absolutely no rush. We can start by setting up a few chance meetings and events where you can be photographed together. We’ll see how social media responds, and that’ll help guide our next moves.”

Feeling suffocated, you stand up. You were mentally prepared to be let go; you weren't prepared for this. 

“For four years, you've told me to protect my image. To protect my brand. To make sure no one else controlled my career. And now you’re telling me all that I’m good for is being someone else’s girlfriend.”

“I’m trying to help, Y/N,” Emily says, more dejected than before.

“This isn’t personal; this is business,” David adds. 

You can’t help but scoff, and you take a final look at Emily now that she’s dragged the two of them into your business. “I trusted you.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. 

“Wait–” Garrett turns in his chair to face you, and no matter how kind he seems, you’re too embarrassed to face him. 

“This actually has nothing to do with you.”

Anna: Hey, how’d it go?

You decided not to reply rather than explain to your friend that you had cried your eyes out in a single stall bathroom and were now trying to collect yourself and get the hell out of this building. 

God, you looked horrible. You dabbed a cold towel under your eyes, wiping away your smudged mascara. Despite reapplying your lip gloss and letting your hair down, you still found yourself frightened by your own appearance. 

You made your way out of the lobby bathroom, out the revolving doors, and onto the busy sidewalk. Looking down at your phone again, you realize your rideshare is still eight minutes away. 

Then—

“Y/N!” 

“Are you retiring?”

A group of photographers and a reporter suddenly surrounds you. You stumble backwards as the reporter forces a microphone into your face. 

“Is it true you’re not going to the Olympics?”

“Were you released today?”

You freeze. 

No, no, no. 

Flashing lights start to blind you. Your whispered “please stop” and your “no comment” are drowned out by the camera shutters. 

“Have you accepted you’ll never compete again?”

A large camera nearly knocks you to the ground. 

A deep engine rumbles from the street, cutting through the chaos, and you catch a glance at a black car that skids to a stop in front of the sidewalk. A car door opens and Garrett appears. He doesn't hesitate, rounding the front of his Jeep and shoving his way in between you and the mob. 

“Back the fuck up!” 

His voice cuts through the noise, command sharp enough to make them hesitate.

He grabs hold of your waist, pulling you against his body, an act that would typically freak you out, but for some reason, you find yourself clinging to him. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He lifts you off your feet, not on purpose, but because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you that his attempt to shield you from the crowd accidentally pulls you onto your toes.

“Garrett, are you guys dating?”

“How did you two meet?” 

“Did the agency arrange this?”

He opens the passenger door and lifts you inside, the door slamming behind you. You cover your face with your hands as the flashing continues, now directed inside the car, and Garrett slides back into the driver's seat. 

“Fucking hell,” He curses as he speeds off, engine roaring, the vibrations rolling through you. “They should’ve never let you walk out of there by yourself.” 

Knees pulled to your chest, you hiccup as tears fall again. You’re grateful you’ve already cried off the rest of your mascara. 

“Are you okay?” You shake your head, too emotionally tired to hold up any sort of shield. Garrett rests one hand casually on the steering wheel and the other on the middle console. “Fucking assholes.”

You rest your arm next to his, your skin brushing against the fabric of his black sweatshirt. The noise seems to quiet around you, your heart's pounding starts to slow, and you feel the desire to hold onto him again.

You don't know why you feel safer.

You don't even know him.

Fingers grazing against his, Garrett decides to close the gap between you, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

He releases a deep breath, glancing over you before he says. “That was shitty, I know. I honestly thought Emily had already mentioned that whole plan to you. I’m sure it caught you off guard.” 

“Were you going to agree just because you feel bad for me?” 

Garret doesn't flinch, although the words come out sharper than you intended.

“I was going to agree because I wanted to get to know you.”

You stare at him. His jaw tightens as he focuses on the traffic ahead.

“You wanted to get to know an athlete with no career left?”

“Honestly?" He says. "I think you’re just lost, Y/N.”

You blink. “What? You don’t …” Your lips part to argue, and then he squeezes your hand, and that seems to keep your emotions from escalating. His touch grounds you. “What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have an answer just yet. And when a possible solution was presented to you, you immediately shot it down. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable feeling … broken.”

You were broken. Your body did not work the way it used to. As someone so tuned to her own body, that fact was evident. 

“Maybe you don’t want to take control of your own life…” You didn’t appreciate the introspection into your personal problems, and yet, his words made too much sense. “I mean, I totally get spending so long in complete control of your career, your mind, your body. It would make sense that you’d want a break from that.”

He strokes his thumb over your hand.

“I do,” You say automatically, solemnly,  “I want control. People look up to me. My friends are counting on me.”

Garrett hums, nodding his head, and by the way his attention stays on the road, you can tell he doesn’t believe you.

And somehow, that bothers you more because you’re not sure you believe yourself either.

“It’d be wrong to let them down. Let myself down.”

“Seems like you don’t have much control over that, you know, if you can’t skate.”

His words sting.

“How would you feel if you couldn’t play anymore?”

You expect him to pause; he doesn’t, his answer is immediate. “It would probably suck for a while.”

“That’s it?”

“What? It’s a job; it’s not my entire existence.”

“Well, it’s different for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I qualified for the Olympics.”

“That’s fair.” Garrett agrees, which surprises you. “Are you hungry?”

He’s not what you expected, at all. Because some small, desperate part of you wants to stay in this car. Wants to keep holding his hand and let him decide what happens next.

You barely know Garrett Graham.

But somehow, impossibly, he already sees right through you.

Garrett ends up buying you a hamburger and fries, something you hadn’t eaten since you started training for the Olympics, and you enjoy it in the passenger seat of his car. The two of you sit in your apartment building’s parking garage. Your moments of silence aren’t uncomfortable, and you attempt not to be thrown off by how comfortable he already feels around you. He offers to walk you up to your place, but the thought of him seeing your depression room after all of this chivalry makes you want to spiral again. 

Although he looks disappointed, he takes no for an answer. Not before he gives you his number. 

You don’t leave him with a clear answer on how you feel about the “fake dating” relationship, and you don’t mention it to Anna either. Honestly, you convince yourself that meeting Garrett Graham was a part of some strange dream you had and that you could go back to wallowing in despair. 

Except the internet doesn't let you forget.

It only takes a day for the video of you and Garrett saving you from the paparazzi to go viral on the internet. You’re sure this is the relevance that Emily had insisted Garrett would be able to give you. Millions of views and thousands of comments on a single TikTok. You still weren’t sure about being famous for something other than figure skating. 

That weekend, you hear from Garrett for the first time, hours after he wins his game against the Florida Panthers. 

Garrett: What are you doing tonight?

You: Why do you ask?

Garrett: Because I want you to come out with me. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

You: Out with you where?

Garrett: Did you injure your sense of adventure as well?

You sit up from your bed, pushing away your laptop playing Dirty Dancing, and stare down at your phone, incredulous.  

You: What is wrong with you?

Garrett: What’s wrong is I haven’t seen you all week. 

You: You’re not my boyfriend. 

Garrett: I’m starting to understand why you don’t have one. 

You: Fuck off.

You should’ve known he was an asshole. A stupid, smug, handsome asshole. Frustrated, you bring a pillow to your face and scream. Screw him for interrupting your self-care night all to yourself. Anna was in New York prepping for being on the Drew Barrymore show next week. This was your personal time. What right did he have to question your sense of adventure?

His rude comments throw you so off kilter, you can no longer enjoy your movie. You rise from your bed, oversized t-shirt falling against your upper thigh, and start to pace across your room. You should say something else, something clever, but you find yourself coming up short when trying to craft a reply. 

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. 

Hesitantly, you leave your room, padding across the living room of your high-rise two-bedroom apartment and slowly approach the door. Another knock, this one much louder, makes you jump. You see a head of dark, curly hair when you peek through the peephole. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper. 

Another knock. “Open the door, Y/N. I can hear you.”

You curse again. The second it opens, Garrett steps inside like he belongs there, leaving you stumbling backward.

“How did you get here so fast?”

He’s clad in a dark bomber jacket, expensive chain, and dark sneakers. Effortless confidence. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention I live in the apartment building across the street.”

You stare at him.

“Whatever, you have to leave!” You exclaim as he walks further into your place. It’s modern in style and has pink accents everywhere, Anna's and your favorite color. He ignores you completely, turning to the right, toward your open doorway, and he enters your room, completely determined. “Garrett!” 

He seems to ignore the complete disarray that your room is in and heads straight to your closet.

“I’ll call the police!”

You follow behind him, horrified.

He chuckles at that. “Sure, go ahead.” He looks you over then, at your lack of pants and messily strewn hair. A faint smirk appears. “Love the outfit, princess, but you’re not going out like that.”

“I’m not going out at all.” Knowing you weren’t bold enough to call the police on him, you huff and take a seat at the edge of the bed. 

“Uh huh.” Garrett goes through all your drawers before he picks out a silver, sparkling mini-skirt and black, thigh-high boots. “Bingo. Put these on.”

Both items you hadn’t worn since your accident. With the weight you’ve gained from not working out, you’re not even sure you’ll fit into the skirt. “Absolutely not. I can’t even walk in those things anymore.”

“You can hold onto me–”

“No, Garrett.”

“Don’t be a fucking brat, Y/N.” 

That sends the air straight out of your lungs. 

“I’m not–”

“You are,” Garrett drops the boots at your feet, and you jump. “I told you to put them on.”

He stares down at your flustered face, not in a challenge, but because he was giving you one option. Back down. You bit down on your tongue, hard, your chest rising up and down as you struggled to breathe. He said so much and nothing at all in the intensity of his gaze. An unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Did you want to find out what he’d do if you didn’t obey?

Carefully, you bent down and grabbed hold of the left boot, pushing your feet into the shoe before pulling the black leather fabric all the way up to your knee. To your surprise, they still fit over your calves.

“There you go.” His voice is quieter now.

You bite down on your tongue harder, eyes focused on his feet, as his voice caresses over you. You do the same with the right foot, this time your hands lingering for an uncomfortable amount of time on your right knee.

“Good girl.”

The praise makes your breath catch.

And you hate how much you notice it.

“Now, take off those granny panties.”

“I don’t want to.” Your voice is small, unrecognizable. 

“I didn’t ask what you wanted.”

“It’s either no panties or these.” He holds out a pair of black, lacy panties. Those were a part of a gift that Anna had gotten you when you turned twenty-one. No one had ever seen you in them. “I’ll let you decide that.”

You stand, wobbling, like you did the first time you got back on the ice. Garrett grabs you by your hips to steady you. For a moment, you get stuck in his gaze, and the hungry way he’s staring at you. “Panties, princess.”

He’s so insistent. It’s overwhelming. And it’s not like you to listen to a man. Or anyone, for a matter. You’re independent. You make your own decisions. You’re anything but that, now, as you reach down to slide off your boyshorts. He holds onto you as you step out of them. He kneels then, and you hold onto his shoulders as you step into the black lacy pair of underwear. 

“Garrett!” You yelp when he grabs you by your bottom, pressing his nose into the fabric that’s now wrapped tightly against your center. He inhales deeply, and you feel that warmth spreading to your core. He pushes you back onto the bed then, and you land with a bounce. “What–what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I know I want you on my arm tonight, but I’m debating if I should fill your cunt before we leave or end the night inside of you.” Garrett strips off his jacket before he lifts your thighs as he settles between them. You’re speechless when he presses his lips to yours. He wastes no time exploring you, parting your lips, and sticking his tongue in your mouth. When he pulls away, allowing you to get a breath, he’s made up his mind. “Both work, actually. Both sound good.”

 “Garrett,” You whine. 

"What? Tell me what's wrong. You don't like it when I touch you?"

"I hate it." In a swift movement, he forcefully pins your hands above your head. "Garrett!"

"Then why are you grinding against me?"

Fuck. You tilt your head back in frustration.

“I had a feeling about you. I knew you were a dirty little princess,” Garrett grunts against your skin. His jeans are tight enough for you to already feel how hard he is, and he wastes no time creating friction between you. “All pent up.”

“Fuck, I wanna taste all of you.”

“Garrett–”

“Warm you up, yeah?”

You whine louder, unrecognizable to yourself. 

“Oh no, you don’t want that? Want me to make it hurt?”

“Please.” Tears sting your eyes. How did he know exactly what you needed to feel? That you liked the pain. That you wanted to feel worthless. That you needed someone else to finally tell you what to do.

“Dirty fucking princess. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

It burned between your legs. Garrett had kept his word. Made it hurt. And you’d finished while he rocked his hips, deep inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles into your sensitive bud. 

He’d dragged you to the club along with his teammates and worn what he had done to you like a badge of honor, all night. As soon as you got used to walking in the heels again, the vodka shots, unfortunately, made it harder again. 

A party for other athletes is actually the last place you’d usually want to be—athletes who have successful careers and are close to winning another playoff. You’ve managed to go six months without being in a room like this, and Anna had been begging you to integrate yourself back into the world. Except, you hadn’t been sure this was even your world anymore. 

Tonight, you hoped your thigh-high black boots and sparkling mini-skirt would give you an heir of confidence and nonverbally say I’m totally fine, totally sexy, and I can live without figure skating. 

The nightclub was decked out in black, gold, and white in celebration of the Bruins’ win tonight. There were packs of puck bunnies who’d paired their thigh-high boots with the jerseys of their favorite players. 

You didn’t wonder long if you belonged here because being on Garrett’s arm made it so the sea of people parted everywhere the two of you walked. People only had kind things to say when they greeted him, which meant you got less of the back-handed compliments you were getting used to. 

No mentions of “Oh my God. I used to love you!” or “You were so good last year!” Garrett, somehow, was making you feel less like you were “talented” in the past tense and more like you could exist without any of those labels. He gave you a taste of what it would be like to be Garrett's girl.

When you started to leave your body, feeling like a million eyes were on you, Garrett grabbed your chin and forced your eyes onto his. “Look at me. No one’s gonna hurt you.” Except me, his eyes seemed to say. “I’ll handle it”

You try to relax and to use all that poise and sensuality you’d learned from skating and channel it into dancing with Garrett. 

After the two of you have danced hard enough to leave you covered in a layer of sweat, Garrett guides you over to the bar. 

“You’re glad you came, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure glad is the way you would describe it. 

“You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t want me to.” He says smoothly before he orders you a Vodka Red Bull. As you wait for the bartender to mix your drink, he leans down to speak into your ear, “Hey, so, a few of the guys and their girls are going to Vegas tonight.”

“Oh,” You lean up to say, “That sounds fun.”

“Good." Garrett smiles. “We’re going too.”

You shake your head quickly. “Absolutely not. Vegas? Tonight? It’s already almost midnight!”

“You can sleep through the flight.”

Concern fills your eyes but Garrett turns his focus on grabbing your drink and forcing it into your hands. “I’m not prepared to fly. And you don’t have plane tickets, do you?”

“Drink that.”

“Garrett–”

“Don’t be rude. I just paid twenty bucks for that. Drink it.”

His tone is stern, and you can feel the seriousness even over the pounding EDM music. Again, there’s no challenge in his eyes.

He doesn’t have to raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to argue.

He just looks at you like he already knows you’ll listen.

The worst part is that he's been right the entire night.

You take a sip, instantly cringing at how strong it is. Garrett isn’t satisfied when you flash your eyes up at hiim. A non-verbal command. More. Taking a breath, you take a longer sip. 

"There you go."

"You're annoying."

"Maybe."

He smiles again, white teeth flashing, and you're starting to understand why all of Boston has become obsessed with him.

“You got somewhere to be tomorrow, princess?” Your teeth bite at your straw, slightly frustrated and mostly buzzed.

"No."

“That’s what I thought.” 

After midnight, when you’re in the car with Garrett, you realize that Garrett didn’t have a single drink tonight. Meanwhile, your head was spinning, mini-skirt riding up and knee high boots that were now pooling around your ankles. 

The last time you were in Vegas was for a competition years ago. You’d done your fair share of partying in the early days of college but ever since you locked in for the Olympics, you hadn’t done any heavy drinking. Which meant you’d become much more of a lightweight than you remembered. 

“I can’t go through TSA like this,” you mumble, sinking into the passenger seat.

An old rock song plays quietly through the speakers.

“I’ll get arrested.”

Garrett glances over.

“No TSA where we’re going, baby.”

“What?” You moan, “I thought we were getting on a plane.”

“A private plane.”

You gasp, “No freaking way. You have a plane.”

“I don’t have a plane, princess. I have friends who have a plane.” 

“I have to text Anna.”

“I’ll text her for you when we get on the plane.”

“Fuck,” You felt like you were talking in slow motion.  “This has been the weirdest night of my life. I can’t believe I fucked Garrett Graham.

A pause.

"Me."

Your eyes start to close.

"America’s sweetheart.”

You don’t see the smile that crosses his face.

You’re asleep before the car even reaches the runway.

The bed you wake up in is soft but obviously not yours. The room is blurry when you first open your eyes, the sun peeking in through a nearby window, a loud hum immediately flooding your ears. The sound is deep and constant. 

A plane. 

You swore you dreamt that part of the night. There’s no way you agreed to go with Garrett all the way to Vegas. Then again, you were completely sober when you let him inside of you. 

Running your fingers over your skin, you realize the only piece of clothing you’re still wearing are your underwar. As the panic continues to sink in, the bed dips beside you, and heavy arm wrapping around you. A shirtless, sleeping Garrett, settles beside you, his hips pressing into your bottom. 

“Garrett,” You whisper, your heart racing in your chest. He moans in response, hands reaching to grab a handful of your breast. “Can you wake up?”

“What?” He asks gruffly, annoyed. 

“Why am I naked?”

“What?” He asks again, half asleep, “I undressed you. You were wasted last night.”

“But you didn’t …” Your voice trails off as the question hangs in the air. 

“Of course not..”

“Oh…okay.”

He presses a soft, unexpected kiss to your shoulder and your worries melt … slightly. “Disappointed?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay,” He says, unbelieving. He continues to grab your breast, placing kissess along your shoulder and the back of your neck. He’s hard, erection straining against his briefs, and pressing into your ass. 

“I think I’ve lost my mind,” You think out loud. 

Garrett hums, strong fingers trailing down your stomach and towards your center, “Doesn’t help that you’re touch starved.” This observation makes you want to roll your eyes, “You’re so responsive.”

You breath out, holding in your moans, “Are we landing soon?”

“There's time, don’t worry.”

Garrett presses you into the bed, stomach and the side of your head against the sheets. He positions himself at your entrance moments later.

"So needy."

He slips inside of you like last night, knowing you’re wet but not wet enough to take all of him.

He holds the back of your neck tightly, pressing your face further into the mattress as he roughly grabs the flesh of your bottom. He spanks you as he takes you deeper. It hurts, but that's what you like the most, and from this angle, he can watch as your face contorts in pleasure. 

“I think I’ll take you everywhere with me.” 

He spanks you so hard it’ll surely leave bruises. The feeling makes you grit your teeth, but you don't ask him to stop. You don't want him to.

“My little stress reliever.”

“I can use you however I want, right?”

His words, the shame, the friction against the bed- it quickly sends you tumbling over the edge. Your body shakes as you squeeze him tighter. His hips stutter. “Fuck.”

“You like that.”

“This is what you’re good for, princess. Making me feel good.”

His goal is not your pleasure. It just so happens that his taking what he needs from you is what feels best.

“Oh my -- Garrett!”

It’s his name on your lips that brings him to his own end. He pins you tighter to the bed, another reminder of where you belong.

Beneath him. 

It’s eye-opening, the relief, and how much you like the feeling.

You think you would want to feel this way all the time, if that were even possible.

For now, though, surrendering to him feels easier than fighting to hold yourself together.

Two days later, you pace inside the luxurious hotel suite, the lights of the Las Vegas strip shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“It’s just a bikini, Y/N,” Anna’s voice comes through your phone. You stare down at your screen and see her camera propped up in front of her as she wipes off her makeup from the day. You're three hours ahead of her, your night just beginning as hers is coming to an end.

She's wrong.

It’s actually the opposite of a bikini. 

It’s a piece of clothing that Garrett Graham has picked out for you and expects you to wear to a huge pool party tonight. 

It’s unforgiving of your scars or your changing body. 

“You’re allowed to have fun, you know?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’ve spontaneously decided to go to Las Vegas with Garrett Graham and wearing a bikini in public is where you’re drawing the line.” 

“You know, you’re not helping, you’re supposed to tell me that I’m being crazy. That I’m fucking up my entire life.”

“Fucking up your life? Girl, do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?”

You sigh, frustrated. 

“I can’t do this, Anna.”

“You can.”

“Can’t!”

“Fine, you’ve never listened to me. Maybe he can convince you, though.”

You scoff at that. “What does that mean?” 

“It means that, for some reason, Garrett Graham is the only person who’s been able to get to you since all of this happened. I just have a feeling that I’m gonna wake up in the morning to some paparazzi photos of you looking gorgeous in that bikini and having the time of your life.” 

Anna ends up being right because everyone, like Garrett, seemed to know you better than you did yourself. 

It doesn’t take any convincing for Garrett to get you into a red bikini. All he has to do is tell you to put it on. You give in instantly. 

He leaves you no room to feel insecure with him. There’s no way you can’t feel gorgeous because Garrett doesn’t go longer than five minutes without his tongue down your throat. 

You shower that night together, after the pool party, and Garrett takes his time carefully dragging the soapy washcloth across your skin. 

“Plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been a very good girl for me this weekend.”

You knew what it meant. You kept close to him no matter what party or event he wanted to take you to. When he wanted to be inside of you, you let him bend you over. 

“Uhm.” You force yourself to take a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“You think you deserve a reward?”

Was the free vacation and a dozen orgasms not enough of a reward?

You turn to face him, eyes blinking up at him nervously, warm water beating against your back. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” He grabs hold of your chin with one hand. With the other, he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “I want to spank you.”

A sharp inhale. “Is that …is that not a punishment?”

“Not for you.”

The steam escapes the glass shower as Garrett leads you back into the bathroom. He takes his time drying your hair and your skin, paying attention to every curve of your body. You notice the way his fingers hover over your scar. When you flinch away, he grabs your leg tighter, a reminder to stay in place. To not run away from him.

Pleasure or pain, whatever he decided to give you.

You had to take it. 

You wanted to.

It was getting harder and harder to hide how desperate you were.

“I’m tired.”

“So you don’t want your reward?”

Garrett stands, wrapping a towel around his waist, dark hair still dripping onto the skin of sculpted chest. 

You bite down on your lip, afraid to tell him no. He looks you over closely. 

“Fine. Go to sleep if you’re tired.”

He turns away from you, walking over to one of the Jack and Jill sinks. 

“I feel sore too. From earlier.”

Garrett hums, ignoring you, and although he’s had his tongue in your mouth all night, you start to feel upset that he’s turned his attention from you. 

He wants you to beg now. Beg for him to hurt you. 

You haven’t moved yet, twiddling your fingers, and Garrett hasn’t said another word. 

“Is this how you treat all your girlfriends?”

Garrett sighs, drying his hair in the mirror, “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll let me. And you like it.”

“I don’t,” You argue. “Okay, sure, it’s fun in the bedroom. But all the time? If we …if we started dating like our agents suggested, this is how you would treat me?”

“Is that what you want? To date me?”

“No,” You answer too quickly, “I don’t know. Not if this is how it’s gonna be.”

Garrett turns, tossing his towel to the side, before he stalks over to you. 

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m serious–”

“Get on your knees.”

“Garrett, it’s not gonna work. I’m not playing …I don’t want to play your game anymore.”

“Get on your knees, princess.” His voice vibrates through you. The peaks of your chest rise as he stares down at your naked body. 

“Please stop–”

“On your knees, baby. You want to be my good girl, I know you do.”

You lower yourself down gently, your eyes traveling down his legs before they land on the tile floor. 

"Show me how good you are."

“Crawl to the bed.”

Your knees ache almost as bad as your warm center. 

Garrett follows behind you as you slowly, surely taking in the sight of your bare bottom, as you make your way across the tile and then onto the carpet of the bedroom. The room is straight out of a porno. A king-sized bed, red-felt headboard, and a mirror that hangs on the ceiling directly above the bed. Red velvet curtains partially cover the view of the Vegas city life, and the sound of the city- honking cars and nightlife roars on in the background. 

Garrett grabs you and lifts you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing.

“Face on the bed. Ass up.” 

Your body moves before your mind can tell it what to do. 

Much to your disappointment, seconds pass, and you realize Garrett has left the room. You hear shuffling in the kitchen, and you frown. You keep your position perfectly, which is the sickest part. Minutes later, Garrett returns with a glass of water in hand. 

“Do you like when I tell you what to do, Y/N?”

“Yes…”

“Yes, Garrett.” He corrects you. 

“Yes, Garrett.” You parrot back. 

"Then don't complicate things. Let me give you what you need."

He sets down the glass of water on his bedside table before he disappears into the bathroom. Again, you don’t move. 

Tears sting your eyes, the embarrassment settling deep. He returns, now wearing a pair of black Calvin Klein underwear. 

The bed dips as Garrett gets into the bed, pulling the covers over his body. He waits another long minute before he says, “C’mere.”

Hesitant, you lift your head. His tired eyes burn into yours. He pats the spot beside him, and you crawl slowly, like a dog, until you’re beside him. He lifts the covers so you can slide your body next to you. You sniffle, wiping your tears, as you lay your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, not forgetting to add, “Garrett.”

“I know, baby, you're just overwhelmed. Let’s go to sleep.”

No more games.

No more power plays.

At least for tonight.

"It's not my job." Cody huffs. "Besides, she's on one. Heard she dumped her coffee on Tiffy."

"I might too," Harris tosses back. "She's an idiot, like her boss."

You almost argue that Penelope is as good as all your boss. She might not be directly upwards but she could have any of you out of a job. She might just if you don't give her time tonforget your unfortunately stray into the spotlight.

"I know, I just thought..."

"Oh yeah, didn't you fuck up?" Harris chortles.

"Typical," Cody rolls his eyes. "You ladies should stick to makeup."

You frown. They are so annoying. Whatever. If they did it, you'd probably have to redo it anyway.

You give up on the firmware updates and grab your gear. You clip your radio to your belt and head down to the studio stage. Penelope is there growling at Tiffany and tugging her limp waves.

"What the hell did you do to my extensions?"

"Nothing, they look good." Tiffany insists as she spritzes hair spray and tries to add volume.

"That's not what I asked. I always look good." Penelope retorts.

"Where's the guest?" You ask Karlsen, the stage director.

"Late. Kid called to say he got stuck on Sunset... Somehow." Karlsen shakes his head.

Right, no distracting yourself.

You approach Penelope as she sits in her chair. You take out a clip-on mic and look for the best place to put it on her busy dress. She barely notices as you slip it behind a ruffle.

"Where's my coffee?" Penelope snips.

Tiffany looks down at her stained satin blouse. "Mick went for a refill--"

"You are all useless." She whines and swats you away like a fly.

You back up, avoiding her manicure, and she once more fusses at her hair. She's usually in a mood but since yesterday, she's been a terror. You can't help but feel responsible.

"...thanks very much. Every studio is the same yet different, huh?" The deep voice carries before the man appears.

It isn't the expected young actor and his reddish curls, but the same as the day before. What's going on? Napoleon Solo, action star, three time sexiest man of the year, enters with an armful of flowers; violets, daisies, carnations, roses, in a dozen shades of pink, purple, and cream. A lovely wild array.

"Ah, so you've come to apologise," Penelope scoffs as she stands and struts over. She reaches for the bouquet.

He lifts a brow. "If I assumed you had any sense of self-awareness, I might expect the same of you," he keeps the flowers away from her easily. "No, I spoke with Larry. The footage will be scrapped." His blue eyes barely graze her as he turns and searches the stage. "Ah, there you are." He walks towards you as your confusion has you frozen. He holds out the flowers and you stare. "My appreciation."

You blink and glance over at Penelope. She's fuming, lip curled, shaking. You put your palms up.

"Sir, I really don't think I can. Uh... It's a nice gesture and all but... I really can't." You sniff. "It's not professional."

He tilts his head. "Don't let her spoil it," he pushes the flowers at you again.

"Really, Mr. Solo--"

"Napoleon," he intones with a crooked grin. Then he says your name. You almost cringe. "I know you remember me. I remember you."

You stand, uncertain. Your heart pumps wildly and your ears thrum. All at once, the bouquet sends up a puff of petals and you back up as Penelope snatches them and swings them into the floor. The flowers explode into a cloud of stems and petals.

"As gracious as ever," Napoleon remarks tersely.

"You come into my studio." Penelope clings to the few stems still bound on the ribbon and pokes him with it. "And insult me like this. For a tech?" Her voice is shrill. "For this creature--"

She pulls her arm back again and aims at you. He catches the stems easily and yanks them from her grasps. He growls and throws them in her face.

"I don't think you realise how little power you actually have," Napoleon says evenly. "Your a name on a script. No one watches for you, darling."

She balls her hands and stomps, like a toddler in a tiara and plastic heels. "You are so stupid--"

She raises her fists as if to hit his chest and he snags them in his large hands. He walks her backwards as she squeals. He doesn't let go until she sits in her chair.

"Expect my complaint to be followed by legal notice," he brushes a fingertip over his palm. He turns and looks at Karlsen, "if those cameras are rolling, don't wipe the footage."

"Wouldn't think if it," Karlsen can't help but smirk.

Napoleon retreats and stops by you, "you'll need a new job, I expect." He pauses and feels inside his powder blue jacket. "My agent will arrange it." He hands over a card. You accept it, speechless.

"See you in court, Penelope." He turns and strides out. You quickly hide the card. Penelope stands and storms over to kick around the ruins of the flowers.

"Clean this up! Now!" She hollers as stomps past you. "You will all pay for this!”

You don't bother to try to get the mic back. Instead, you turn to help Tiffany clean up the flowers. The rest of the crew whisper in confusion. What do they do now?

As you father up the bent stems, you feel heat on your nape. You peek over and notice how everyone is watching you. Even Tiffany stops tidying to look at you.

You frown and ignore them as best as you can. You didn't ask for any of this. As nice as it is for him to want to make up for Penelope's behaviour, it's the worst thing Napoleon could have done. Especially for you.

“Hey, I'm here, I'm here!” The guest, Peter Parker rushes in, his shirt button unevenly and his hair askew. He stops short and looks around. “What happened here?”

"Oh yeah, buddy. A real charmer when you want to be." Bucky slaps his back, hard. Peter's eyes widen as he stumbles just a step.

"Just followed your lead," peter chuckles nervously.

"Sounds like a drink earned." Bucky stays. "On me. I know this place. It's where I talked Fowler into giving me this role."

"Really? I auditioned twelve times." Peter says.

"It was all just a formality. I know what kinda scotch he likes." Bucky shrugs.

You don't recall this but to be honest, a lot of your time with Bucky is a blur now. You'll be all too happy to forget them. You pull out your phone.

"Well, I'll leave you two to it then." You say. "I gotta get stuff together for tomorrow. And sleep."

"You're not coming?" Peter asks.

"Um, no. Doesn't sound like business. You two have a good time."

"Bummer," Peter pouts. You realise, he might be intimidated by Bucky but you're over being a buffer. Besides, you know Bucky doesn't actually want to have drinks with the clueless heart throb.

"She's a busy lady, isn't she?" Bucky scoffs. "Boys' night. You still gotta tell me about this special lady of yours."

"Alright, have a good one. Your hotel key is in your pocket, right?" You say.

"Got it," Peter assures as he pays around, panicked until he feels the card in his back pocket.

"Okay, enjoy. Don't forget, you're shooting tomorrow morning."

"Bright and early," Bucky chirps and smacks Peter's arm. Hard. "I'll get him back nice and safe. Have a good night, sweetie."

You hesitate at that pet name. Peter glanced over at Bucky curiously. You give a wave and turn on your heel. Any longer with the jerk and you might throw yourself in a canal.

🎞️

The buzz sinks into your subconscious. It's a recurring nightmare for you. Your phone is always vibrating in your dreams, a haunting constant in your waking hours.

It doesn't stop. Your eyes roll open and you groan as you push the sheet away from your waist. It's humid even as a soft breeze flows through the open window.

You reach for your phone. It's one in the morning and Peter is calling. He's usually in bed by now unless there's an after party.

You answer but not before you realise it's a video call. The shine of your phone limbs your sleepy face in the lower corner as youre'rmet with Peter giggling then gagging as he bends over. You hear his puke spew onto the Venice cobble stones.

"Damn, sweetie, looks like you should come get your boy." Bucky snickers off camera. "Can't quite handle his Grappa."

You stifle a yawn and sit up dizzily. "What did you do?" Your voice is crisp in your throat.

"We were just having a good time. When's the last time you did?" He taunts. "Woah, kid, don't fall."

Bucky's hand comes into frame and grabs Peter's arm before he can tip head first into the stone work.

"Bucky, he's... Messed up."

"You'd know about messing a guy up, wouldn't you?" He snarls.

You sigh and push off the bed. "I'm on my way."

He clucks. "Jeez, sweetie, I don't remember you being so worried for me."

You shake your head as you put your phone down to aim at the ceiling. "Where are you?"

"Really, when did you ever give such a shit about me?"

"Bucky, please--"

"You fucking quit. Coward." He growls.

"I remember well helping your drunk ass to bed the last night I suffered working for you." You snap. "It's over. Just... Leave me alone and tell me where the hell you are."

He's quiet. You pull on a loose midi dress and swipe up your phone. "Bucky, where--"

You see Peter sitting on the ground, head hanging. "I'm so... Drunk." He hiccups.

"Wanna know something?" Bucky flips the camera and stares you down through the phone. "I wasn't fucking drunk." His blue eyes bore through the lens. "I was giving you your grand opportunity."

"What are you even talking about? Just tell me where to find you--"

"You coulda been under me, doll. You still could be. Let me tell you, it's a hell of a lot better than this bullshit. Baby sitting this human disaster," he turns the phone and snorts. "All you had to do was look after me and my needs. You know, there's women all over who'd love one night in my goddamn bed."

"Just tell me where you are," you beg.

He sighs and faces the camera again. "All I wanted was to feel you."

You sniff. You flip around your apps. There. You can see Peter's location. It was his idea since he was so bad at giving directions.

"I'm on my way.”

You hang up and snatch up your purse. You clasp the strap between your hand as you hurry through the slanted hallways. You race down the steep stairs and out into the tepid night.

The only way across the canal are the smaller boats meant for couples on romantic outings. You pay the fare to get across and climb up onto the cobbles. You follow the dot on the app. By the time you get to them, Peter’s laying on the edge of a fountain, his phone beside him. Alone.

Bucky just left him like this? What the fuck?

You got to Peter and turn his face up. His lashes flutter. You scoop a palmful of water from the fountain and splash it over him as you call his name. His eyes open and he yelps.

“I love youuuuu.” He slurs then sits up, wobbling. “Oh… it’s you.”

“Peter, are you okay?” You hold onto his arm.

“Huh?”

“Where’s Bucky?” You ask.

“Huh?” He echoes again.

“Peter…” You huff. You pick up his phone and put it in your purse. “Can you walk?”

“Can I… did something happen to my legs?” He gasps.

“No, you’re drunk. Peter–”

“I… I can try.” He babbles and his head starts to droop.

“No, no.” You grab his arm and stand, tugging him. “Let’s go.”

He manages to stand, leaning on you as he can’t quite lift his head all the way. You angle him around and make slow staggering progress to the canal. You catch another ride, this one swaying with Peter’s inebriated tilts, and you struggle to get him up on the other side.

You get to his hotel and the stairs have you out of breath and ready to give up. You move slowly down the hall and get him inside his room. You put him on his stomach across the bed and put the bin next to it. You place his phone on the night stand.

“Peter,” you rub his shoulder. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

You stand up and back away, watching him as he gurgles senselessly. You turn at the door and all at once, you're snagged around the back of your neck, a hand across your mouth. Bucky smirks at you as he hushes you through his teeth.

"Ha. Sure. See if he can put up with ya." She leans back and as she holds her cup between both hands, hovering it over her chest as she inhales the scent. "Or stomach your poison."

You smile weakly even though she's not looking. You've learned to just let the words roll over you. You turn and carefully cross the lawn. You follow the noise of wood clattering into more.

Frank drops another slat onto the pile. You nearly spill the coffee at the noise. You touch your ear and wince. 

He stands straight as he grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls it up to wipe the sweat from his face. Your insides twinge oddly as you notice the thick muscle around his middle and the lines that angle around his pelvis. The dark hair that leads down to his belt has you feel fuzzy.

"Ah, sorry, didn't see ya there," he drops his shirt but it doesn't quite fall all the way, the bottom of his stomach still peeking out.

"I... Coffee." You offer the mug awkwardly.

"Ah, you're good to a man," he crossed to you and takes the cup, his hand dwarfing the porcelain almost comically. He sniffs the coffee and purrs. "Smells good."

"I... Hope... I don't... Drink coffee."

He bends his neck as you speaks and leans in. "You got a nice voice, you should make sure I can hear it."

"Sorry," you utter, still mumbling.

He takes a drink. He nods and purrs at the taste. You shift uneasily. You glance back at the front of the trailer. You're not sure if you should go back but your grandma isn't much better company.

"Wanna help? Don't gotta but you can." He suggests.

"I'm, sure, what can I do?" You rock back and forth.

"Here, I'll show ya." He turns to set his cup down on a stack of cement blocks. "You're gonna take this," he moves to grab a tool belt piled on the ground. He unhooks a measure tape. "You wanna mark the boards so I can cut em. The short ones, about six inches. Then the long ones about twelve. Make sense?"

He faces you and holds out the tape.

"Uh huh." You take it, brushing the coarse skin along the side of his knuckle. "Got a pencil too," he flips the belt around and slides out a stubby HB no.3. He hands that over and again, your skin grazes his. “You need anything, just say my name.”

You look down at the tap and pencil. “‘Kay.”

You hesitate then go to the pile of wood. You stare at it a moment then set a plan. You sort the short ones apart from the longer ones. As you do so, sweat trickles down your temples and dampens the inside of your striped tee shirt.

Frank finishes breaking up the crates as you settle on your knees in the dry grass and bend over a board to measure. His shadow darkens over you and you look up. “Got it, sugar?”

You nod and focus on the task as he looms above.

“Need some water? Least I can do. Repay the favour.” He offers.

“I’m okay,” you assure him as you make a tick on the wood. “Is that… good?”

He bends to get a look at the mark. He presses his wide thumb beside it. “Do it about the width of my thumb, that’d be two of yours.”

“Yes, sir.” You make the tick bigger.

He pulls away. “Frank’s good enough for me, sug.”

You sit up and look around. You set the wood aside from the rest to keep track. You grab another. You work diligently, the led duller with each mark. You reach for another and it slips in your grasp. You hiss and drop it. You shake your hand at the sting of the sliver embedded in your fingertips.

Frank turns and swallows loudly, setting down his mug. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and nears you. “You okay?”

“Mm, yeah.” You keep your head down and examine your fingertip. It’s throbbing. You try to pinch the end of the splinter but it sinks in further. You gasp in pain.

“Come on, lemme see now,” he bends his knees to squat down across from you.

He takes your wrist and pulls your hand closer. He hooks a thick finger around yours and squints at your fingertips. He moves to pinch your finger and you whimper. He eases up.

“It’s really in there.” He drawls.

“It’s okay. I’ll get it out later.”

“Nah. This thing gets in too deep, you’ll never get it out. Get an infection.” He shakes his head. “Now, it’s gonna hurt but you tell me what’s too much and I’ll ease up.”

He focuses on your hand. You nod blankly. Something about his tone sends a shiver through you despite the stolid sun.

“Mm, I almost got it but… damn hands are too big. Bear paws.” He clucks. “Here.”

He moves your hand up and your eyes widen as he puts your finger in his mouth. You’re frozen in shock as he sucks. You feel the pressure pulse in your flesh and he pops your finger out all at once, the relief instant.

He lets you go and feels around his mouth, pulling his finger out to show a small sliver on the tip. “There y’are. The culprit.”

Your mouth is dry as you rub your fingers together. He flicks away the splinter and takes your hand again. He uses his shirt to dry your fingers off.

“All good. You want some gloves? Don’t need ya cutting up them soft hands.” He says.

You shrug. “It’s… I’m okay. Thank you.”

You stare at your reflection as you turn in the bathing suit to examine the generous cutouts. It’s a glorified bikini; the top and bottom are attached by a gold ring, forming a sort of criss cross and highlighting the fullness of your sides. You turn to the side. One wrong move and your butt might fall out. And your chest; the deep cut is doing little to comfort you.

“Sweetheart?” Nick calls from outside. “You ready? That water sure does look tempting in this heat.”

“Erm, oh….” you back away from the mirror and swipe up the towel. “Sure. Uh… Ready.”

You wrap yourself up before you open the door. You nearly gasp as you find Nick in nothing more than a pair of swim trunks; cut high up his thighs, hugging them. His torso is tightly lined with muscle and his arms rounded too. You bite your lip as the towel folds around his neck does little to lessen his bareness.

You catch his eyes flick up from your body as you hug the top of the towel. You squirm and sniff.

“It is really hot here, huh?” You chuckle nervously.

“Sure is. I shoulda warned you about the humidity,” he grins. His hair is slightly puffed up from the damp heat. You’re sure you’re a big mess as well.

“It’s all good. Uh… where’s the pool?” You ask. It’s the one thing he kept a surprise during his tour.

“Ah, yep. This way, sweetheart.”

He beckons with one arm, his other hand hovering and moving behind you as he ushers you down the tiled hall. Each square is painted with a different vine or flower. He takes you around to a door with twisted iron bars behind sliding glass. He pulls back the panes then pushes open the heavier doors. The trickle of water plucks in your ears.

The pool is long and rectangular, running nearly the expanse of the courtyard, around which the villa is built. The water is clear and crystalline, rippling prettily in the sunlight. Along one side, there’s a painted table and matching chairs, on the other, cushioned loungers under umbrellas.

“Oh, wowee.” You say without thinking. “This is like… a movie.”

“Not one of mine,” he intones. He spreads his towel over a sun chair.

“Oh, no. I guess.” You sway as you sense him watching you. Is he expecting you to react more? “Thank you. This is so amazing. I never imagined… anything like this.” You slowly near the edge. “When I was a kid, we’d go to the community pool, but when we got older, we’d swim in the river so the parents of the younger kids wouldn’t yell at us. This one time… well, it’s boring.”

“I don’t think so,” he steps up next to you and brushes his knuckles along the bottom of your towel. “Tell me.”

“Well, ha. You know, we didn’t know there were leaches and my friend, Lucianna, she got them all up the back of her leg and she panicked bad.” You giggle. “We all did and were checking each other and we were all too afraid to take them off her but I got a little stick and did my best.” You shrug. “See? Boring.”

“Cute. Quaint.” He says as he pinches your towel. “Gonna get in with me?”

“Hm, well… maybe in a bit. Can I sit and watch for a bit?” You ask.

He hums. “Sure.” He draws away. “Go for it.”

That tone underlines his words again. Disappointment? Agitation? You’re not sure. He could just be tired. It’s been a long day.

You sidle away and sit on the end of one of the loungers. He stays at the edge of the pool. He dips his toes then tips his whole body, arching to dive into the water. He pushes beneath the surface, slither through, and pops up near the middle. He shakes out his hair and runs his hands over the sopping strands.

“Refreshing.” He says. “Sure you don’t wanna hop in?”

“In a bit.” You assure him, wiggling your foot nervously.

You look down at the towel and back at him. His shoulders, his chest, his jawline. How did you end up here with someone like him?

“What’s the matter? Does the bathing suit not fit?” He wades to the edge.

Your lashes flick and you squirm. “No, it does.”

“Well… you gonna show me?” He prompts as he crosses his arms over the tiled trim of the pool.

You hide your discomfort. “It’s just a swimsuit.” You push your shoulders up.

His eyes narrow. “You don’t want me to see?”

“No.” You lie. “It’s just…” You exhale and shake off your nerves. “You know what, it is hot.”

You try to hide your insecurity as you slowly peel the towel apart. You let it fall back behind you and stand. Your chest and tummy jiggle so you feel every little ripple. You don’t hate your body, not at all, but you never really showed it off too much.

You go to the edge and cautiously sit, dipping your feet and calves into the water. Nick lingers nearby, pushing himself back as he spreads his arms out and watches you. You stare at the intertwining lines of light in the water and push off, sinking in to hide your discomfort and the way the swimsuit catches under your tits.

“I like it. It’s a nice colour on you.” He says as he tilts his head.

“Thanks. That’s… nice. I like the colour too.”

He smirks. “What about me? I think the pattern was a bit of a bold choice.”

You glance down quickly through the water. The oranges on vines across the dark blue fabric isn’t tacky, more sophisticated.

“Cute,” you say. “I like oranges.”

“I think they’re mandarins?” He shrugs. “So, we’ll have a swim and I’ll finally follow through on my promise and take you out to dinner.”

“Oh, you don’t have to–”

“Well, the private chef can’t come until tomorrow.” He wades toward you. “And you have to try real Italian pasta while you’re here. Just once.”

“That’s so sweet of you,” you smile and chafe as his gaze sinks once more. Is he looking at you? What is he thinking? How much is that pasta going to cost?

He’s quiet for a minute then leans back and floats on his back. “I like being with you, sweetheart. You don’t ask for nothing. You just are.”

“Mm, oh. I…I like hanging out, too.” You say.

A gritty noise rolls up his throat and he closes his eyes. He arches his body and dips under the water. He cuts through like a shark as he flips onto his stomach and you back away as he swims toward you. He loops his arms around your legs and brings them up around your waist. As he comes above the surface he picks you up.

You exclaim in surprise as your tits bounce and hit his head. How embarrassing! His face is as good as buried in your stomach too. You lean back and put your hands on his shoulders as you try to see him. He looks up at you with a big smile.

“Nick! What are you doing?!” You squeal.

“Having some fun, sweetheart.” He turns you and carries you across the pool. “I don’t get to do that so often.” 

He tips you over and brings you under with him as you cry out, your surprise drowned by the plunge. He spins you around and brings you back up, soaked and dripping. You feel a breeze across your chest that makes your nipples hard. You look down at your exposed tits and quickly cover them up.

“Let me go!” You demand. He does just that and you fall away from him. You shake your head and hug your chest. “I’m so sorry! I think… I don’t think this fits after all.” You turn and push your feet through the water.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve seen a lot more than that.”