The wetness between my legs makes that tank look bone dry by comparison.
But, even a short-sighted person from another planet could tell at a glance that the tank is solid. The stage is too, with nothing I can see anyone could use to fake what I know he’s about to attempt.
I can hear my voice answering his questions, hear the crowd’s response. Aware of his team moving closer as they all get ready
But I sound like someone else, like a voice from far away.
I’m suddenly gripped with sheer terror when he lets go of my hand to ready himself as the chains and shackles come out.
A wave of horror ripples through me, and I can’t help myself. My scientific instincts, as well as my gut, tell me something’s not right.
I rush over to him and grab a hold of him, begging him to be careful, wishing he’d do anything but get in that damned tank right now.
He’s not his usual focused self. I’m not dreaming that part.
But I watch him lean down, close enough to touch.
Close enough to—
“For luck,” I squeak, having planted a kiss just above his chiseled jawline.
The crowd roars and I almost forget my own anxiety, replaced by a rush of warmth over my whole body.
Not just meeting Jett Masters, but having him hold my hand… actually kissing him…
Lord? You can take me now. My work here on earth is done.
The last time I saw this stunt on the TV, Jett took several silent minutes to prepare himself physically and mentally.
Doesn’t sound like riveting viewing, but watching Jett do anything is mesmerizing. Even the crowd seems restless.
More than the usual tension before a feat like this.
It all just feels wrong somehow.
Like he’s rushing things.
But why?
My heart is in my throat when he jumps feet first into his tank, the lid closed and locks set to snap shut on timers in thirty seconds…
I’m not the only one feeling something’s off, with some of the crowd already on their feet after a few moments, and Jett’s support crew moving towards the tank.
Something’s gone wrong and they need to get him out.
He doesn’t look that bothered though, sure he’s struggling, his cheeks puffed with what little air he has left.
Okay. Okay. This is all part of the show. Just all part of the act.
Isn’t it?
In fact, even though he’s underwater and somehow manages to free his hands, it’s the beginnings of a smile on his face I don’t understand.
The fact he’s still staring right at me too.
Like he did from up here on stage while I sat in the front row.
Why won’t you move? Why won’t you even try to—
With a sudden movement, Jett pushes himself up from the bottom of the tank, grabbing at the cover once it registers his time is running out.
If he’s not out in seconds, the locks will engage.
And there’ll be no way of getting him out in time.
“Move!” Someone grunts, pushing me to one side as the tank is suddenly swarmed with the crew, arena staff, and medics.
I can’t see Jett anymore, but the entire arena, myself included; breathe a sigh of relief once we can see the top of the tank open.
His huge body being helped out and led down the steel stairs to the stage, where he collapses.
Something in me clicks, and I’m suddenly not the intern reporter or the adoring fan anymore.
I’m worried as hell about the only thing I really care about in this life.
It takes some doing, but with some pushing and shoving of my own, and dodging big hands trying to grab me and get me off stage, I’m kneeling by Jett’s side.
His eyes dart open and his stern-looking mouth pulls into a smile before he looks past me. Suddenly angry.
Those hands are back on me, lifting me up and away.
Security or just his team? Who knows? But Jett’s not having any of it.
“Leave her alone, she’s mine!” he booms, his voice silencing the whole team in an instant.
“He’s alright, folks… Jett Masters is fine!” A louder voice exclaims over the arena’s sound system.
“Just a little technical error… We’ll be right back,” It continues, but is silenced by cheers when Jett stands up.
Towering over everyone on stage and even making the tank designed to hold him look small by comparison.
He holds up a hand, signaling he’s fine. But he’s reaching for me with his other one, pulling me close to him when I’m within range.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he huffs, still short of breath but in no way hurt or looking like he’d quit anything.
He motions for a microphone again, and with a firm grip on me still, he steps forward to let everyone know he’s fine.
“The one time it could go wrong,” he jokes, motioning towards the cameras. A ripple of relief and muted laughter runs through the audience.