Steel 7 (Multiple Love)

"Can I rest my hand on your back? I want to check something."

He's so close to me now that I can smell his cologne. It's something gorgeously fresh that tickles my nose and momentarily transports me to an alpine field in a country I’ve only ever seen on Christmas cards.

"Sure."

When he rests his big warm palm against my back, half is on the corset and the other half on my bare skin. A shiver runs up my spine, cresting over my scalp and making me gasp.

In the background, the crowd roars as the support act sings their biggest hit.

"Breathe in as deep as you can," Elijah says. I try my hardest to inhale as much air as possible, but it's not enough. "Shit," he mutters, glancing at his watch. Then he's striding into the corridor. I can hear a rushed conversation with Connor and Mo, who are outside the door, then the rustle of the walkie-talkie. Angelica's voice sounds through the static. "Can you get down here? We've got a problem with Luna."

"What is it?" she shouts, and even though her voice is reaching me from a distance, I can hear her frustration and disapproval.

Elijah returns to the room. "Luna, do you have another top you can wear instead of that corset?"

"Only my black tube top," I say.

"Will it go with the skirt?" He eyes the rest of my costume as though he's totally out of his depth in a conversation about women's fashion.

"Yeah, but it isn't what the costume designer wants."

"Fuck the costume designer."

It's at that moment that Angelica appears, her cheeks reddened with exertion and her nostrils flaring. "What's wrong?" She eyes me, waiting to hear what petty thing I'm going to complain about. I know that other artists have ridiculous ridders that include things like bowls of red M&M’s, but I'm not like that.

"Luna can't breathe in this costume. It's dangerous for her to go on stage like this to perform if she can't breathe." Elijah moves to stand closer to me as though he wants to show that he's supporting me.

"Costumes aren't my department." Angelica glances at her watch, her exasperation obvious.

"No, but an unconscious artist who fails to perform a full set will be."

That gets her attention. "Why didn't you bring this up with Laurence?" she spits.

"I did, but he wouldn't listen."

"You really need to get better at advocating for yourself," she says. "Rather than leaving this shit to the last minute and risking a late performance. If you don't wear that, what the hell are you going to wear?"

"She has another black top," Elijah says, taking another step closer. I swear, if he could put himself between Angelica and me, he would.

"Well, you'd better get that on quickly. You're on in five minutes."

"Can you help me unlace?" I ask Elijah, turning so my back is to him and glancing at his wide-eyed face over my shoulder.

He stares at the laces as though they’re a trigonometry paper he hasn’t prepared for. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Just undo the bow at the top and unlace."

"Shit," he mutters, looking for a second at his hands, contemplating their capabilities.

Angelica huffs and then leaves as Elijah tries to use his thick fingers to disentangle me from the torture device I'm strapped into. They brush my skin, causing more shivers, fumbling with the bow, and then testing each string to gradually loosen the top. I'm not wearing a bra, so I hold the front of the corset close to my chest, breathing deeply as the strings are loosened enough to allow me to fully expand my chest.

"That's better," he says as he reaches the bottom. His finger brushes the skin at the base of my spine. “You have red marks," he says gently. "I don't get why women wear this shit. No kind of fashion is worth hurting yourself." Then he takes a step back and turns to face the wall. "You'd better get that stupid thing off, and your tube top on before Angelica has a shit fit."

Dashing over to my bag, I rummage around for a bra and my tube top, finding both folded neatly where I left them earlier. I push the corset down, allowing it to hit the floor. It doesn't take me long to fasten my strapless bra and tug the top over my head. It leaves an inch of skin bare between the hem and the waistband of my skirt, an inch that is marked with corset welts. When I turn, Elijah is still facing the wall, his hands flexing, and shoulders bunched high.

"I'm ready," I say. When he turns, those baby blues of his scan my outfit.

"That's better," he says. "You don't need that stupid contraption. You need to be able to use your body." His words settle over me, sending my mind to darker ways I could use my body, ways that would give us both pleasure.