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I have three videos to film and edit. Usually, it takes me the entire day, but I’ll have to put perfection aside to get it done. There’s my weekly content video for all my subscribers and two personalized dances. Weekly content is easy because I put on a music suggestion from a fan and let the music guide me. It’s spontaneous and fun, which inevitably leads to mishaps, and my clients eat that shit up with a spoon. And I have one of the other dances choreographed, so I should be able to knock them out in a couple of hours if I don’t get in my head.

I put a ton of thought into my filming room, and I’m proud of it. I modeled the rear wall after a photography studio with twenty different backdrops plus the exposed brick wall. Some of them can be layered to create a unique look or texture. I film my weekly content in front of the brick wall so it’s easily recognizable.

Switching up the music genre every week helps create a buzz, and my chat room enjoys making predictions. Reading their comments keeps me on the pulse of their desires.

Today is a classic rock day. I change into a black leotard with a tear-away skirt and use a vintage tie around my forehead to complete my ’80s look. While I cue up the song and ensure my camera is set up, I internalize the lyrics so I can convey them through dance. My fans chose an angsty rock ballad, predicting that my nonexistent love life has become super complicated.

I start with my head hanging low and slowly lift it to stare at the camera. No smile, intense eyes, and I let the music flow from my body. This is when I’m the freest. The most like myself.

For four minutes and fifty-five seconds, there’s only me and the music: haunting notes, despondent lyrics, and an Irishman’s unmistakable voice.

I end with a sly smirk and a teasing wink, giving them a reason to visit my site again. Shaking out my limbs, I turn off the camera and pick up the skirt and all the tooling that I took off. It happens organically, and I don’t notice when I’m taking things off.

Dancing returned me to myself, ready to tackle the world. I became Lark for precise reasons, and just because Mav is here doesn’t mean I need to revert to being Skylar.

As I watch the video, I’m satisfied with it and post it after only cropping the length. No reshoots or special editing. It’s early to drop it, but it goes live, and I turn off my notifications. If I don’t, it will ding or vibrate through my next two videos.

Pride courses through my veins at being able to block out distractions to free my soul. My eyes blur and my breath freezes. Dancing my troubles away was Skylar’s best coping mechanism, not Lark’s.

Sky didn’t realize how cruel the world could be or how hard it is to achieve a dream. He could be fearless because he was totally innocent. So many years, I’ve been repressing Sky, but maybe there are some parts to salvage.

My mind races back to Mav. Nope. Not volunteering for that heartache.

But maybe things could be different now because I understand my deal-breakers.

Chapter 9

Maverick Maher

My eyes are crusty as I pry them open to find myself in a stranger’s bed. Bits and pieces resurface about the last couple of days. At least I hope it hasn’t been more than two days.

I smell the sheets to determine if I hallucinated Sky or if I’m in his bed. His distinctive honey-and-cedar scent relaxes my body.

It’s a shock that Sky would bring me to his home. He could’ve dumped me at my place or a hotel. But that’s not who he is. Or was. Sky hates to see anyone suffer. Even when they deserve it. He covered for his nasty sister when she broke her finger punching him. Sky told his parents she tried to hit him, but he broke her finger instead. He’s a living angel.

His room belongs in a magazine. The detailed woodwork around the doors and windows is beautiful. He told me he lives in a brownstone, and this big room with large windows fits the image I had. There’s an exposed brick wall and well-kept wood floors. Everything has a place, and each piece of furniture looks selected especially for this room. It’s home.

There’s a flutter next to me when I lie flat. It’s a note.

Mav,

I’m working. If you wake up, there’s food in the kitchen downstairs.

Sky

I press the note to my chest, hoping to at least be his friend. I’m so much worse than his family. Loving him means nothing if none of my actions show it. I’ll do whatever he wants this time if he lets me in.

Slowly, I sit up. Two sensations happen at once: I need to piss, and I could eat the Meat Street buffet all by myself. The adjacent bathroom door is open, so that’s first. It’s not a pretty sight when I check myself in the mirror. My insides ache worse than if I’d taken a brutal hit against the boards on the ice with no pads, and it shows on the outside.

Peeking into the hallway, I’m unsure if Sky has roommates or if I’m alone. The house is warm, as in above seventy degrees, which is tropical for this hockey player.

“Hello?” I call out loud enough for someone to hear me if they’re here. No one answers, so I lean on the railing for support as I go downstairs in my boxer briefs. Putting on clothes is way too much work.

I call out again after I open the door at the bottom. It’s silent, so I tiptoe around like a thief who shouldn’t be here. The ridiculousness of my situation makes me laugh out loud, and I jump at the sound.

Leave it to Brant to play matchmaker for me, get hypothermia, and forget to tell me. If I had any dignity, I’d get dressed and leave so Sky doesn’t have to deal with me when he’s done working. He didn’t invite me here. From the arguing last night, Brant tricked Sky into picking me up. Fuck.

My stomach rumbles, and I open a cupboard and find gluten-free crackers. I’ll settle my stomach with these and then go.