After that night at the Velvet Hideaway, I’m done with being on camera.
The ball bounces outside, and the hallway creaks, but there’s one notable absence to the noises of the house.
There’s no music.
Dimitri hasn’t played the piano, or any of his other instruments, since I humiliated him at the homecoming performance. And although we’ve promised one another that we’re okay about what happened at Daniel’s brothel, it’s still been a little difficult to look one another in the eye. I don’t know what it’s like for him, but for me, it’s not about shame. It’s that Dimitri put himself between me and the world, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.
There was a moment when he was inside of me, protecting me, asking me sweetly to come for him, that I felt something click in my heart. But here, away from all that, I’m not sure if it was real or not. What I do know is that Dimitri sacrificed something to rescue me that night. Something big that weighs on his shoulders. I owe him, but I’m not sure what I owe him for. And I’m not sure he’d tell me if I asked.
I toss again, flipping over to my stomach, my eyes heavy despite the anxiety I feel in the pit of my gut. I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep since that night I walked through the door of my own volition. Not because I needed protection. Not because I was being forced to. Not because I felt threatened.
Just because I wanted to.
In a perfect world, that would have made everything easy, but the reality is a lot more complicated. It’s as if locking my stepbrother out, and then watching Tristian methodically remove every trace of his ability to watch me, has made me feel impossibly exposed. Anything could happen in this room and they wouldn’t know.
Just like every night, I reach for my phone, thumbing it open and going for my most recent contact.
He answers on the second ring, voice quiet, scratchy with disuse. “I think I’m dying.”
I turn on my side and tuck my hand beneath my cheek, fixing my gaze to my dark, empty bathroom. “What is it tonight?”
He sniffs, but the cough that follows belies the haughtiness. “I don’t know. Three blunts and a fifth of vodka? Possibly a Xanny, but maybe that was last night.” After a beat, he asks, “Wait, what day is it?”
I wince. “Jesus, Dimitri. Why don’t you try staying sober for one night?” It’s a stupid request. For one, I’m at least partially responsible for everything that’s wrong in his life right now. For two, his generally being unable to remember these late night discussions is a big part of why I feel so inclined to have them.
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” he snipes back, and even though there’s no real heat to it, his muttered, “No more rules about that,” has resentment just rolling off it.
“Don’t feel like it,” I lie.
“You’re lying.” There’s a shuffle through the speaker, rustles of fabric and air. “Nothing wrong with needing a nut to get to sleep.” Dimitri does a good job of acting like we don’t do this every couple of nights. My feigning disinterest. His coaxing me to do what I already want to do. Maybe he really does get so drunk that he forgets, because it always goes the same.
He sighs into the phone, low and gritty in that way that tells me he’s just taken himself from his pants. I worry my lip between my teeth as I listen, hand creeping beneath my covers. I can easily envision him in that dimly lit room upstairs, reclined on his bed or his couch. He’d have the phone on speaker, but kept close. Probably already shirtless, the toned muscles in his abdomen flexing as he strokes himself.
“What panties are you wearing?”
My face heats at the question, fingers dipping below the elastic as I roll to my back. I don’t need to look to answer, “They’re blue.”
He hums over the rustles in the background. “The lacy ones with the white trim.”
My breath hitches at the first touch, imagining that they’re his fingers pressing into my clit. “You probably have all my other blue ones up in your room.” It’s meant to sound admonishing, but the gasp I make when my thighs spread sort of ruin the effect. “And my black ones, too.”
“The black ones are best,” he says, voice imbued with a hardness that tells me he’s stroking himself. Is he already hard? Does he have to coax it to life like he does for me? “I like jacking off with them.”
I pause, trying to reorient my mental image of him on that couch. “Really?”
He answers without a trace of embarrassment. “Only if you’ve already worn them. I like it when you’ve gotten them all wet.”