Chapter 7: Landline Confessions
The heavy steel door thudded shut with a sound of finality, the electronic bolt sliding home with a soft, decisive chunk. Sammy stood in the silent foyer, the vast, cold marble stretching around her. The echo of Rebel’s motorcycle had faded into the hum of the city below, leaving a vacuum filled only by the too-loud beat of her own heart.
She methodically moved through the first floor, a nightly ritual now tinged with new paranoia. Each touchpoint felt different. The polished handle of the French door to the patio was cool under her palm. She pressed it, hard, testing the lock. It held. The sleek, modern kitchen was a landscape of dark granite and stainless steel, untouched since the housekeeper left. She checked the pantry door, the utility entrance—a small, heavy door leading to the pool equipment—ensuring the deadbolt was fully engaged. Her platform boots were a stark, clacking contrast to the house’s usual silence.
Upstairs, the hallway was a gallery of dim sconces and abstract art that cast long, distorted shadows. She paused outside Caleb’s room, his door firmly closed. He was likely still out, or asleep. The thought of his empty room just made the house feel bigger, emptier. Her own door, at the end of the hall, seemed both a sanctuary and a trap.
She entered her bedroom and closed the door behind her, the solid wood a comfort. She turned the old-fashioned key in the lock, the click a satisfying, physical guarantee. For a long moment, she leaned her forehead against the cool, jade-painted wood, eyes closed.
The adrenaline was fading, leaving a shaky exhaustion in its wake. But beneath the fatigue, a different, warmer current was pulling at her. She pushed off the door and walked to her dresser, catching her reflection in the ornate, dark-framed mirror. Her makeup was still perfect, sharp winged liner and dark lips, but her eyes were wide, the pupils still dilated from fear.
And from the ride.
She unzipped her boots, kicked them off, and sank onto the edge of her velvet-covered bed. The quiet hum of the house wrapped around her. She stared at her own hands, lying limp in her lap.
Then she saw them, in her mind’s eye, not resting but wrapped tightly around Rebel Gage’s waist. She could feel it again, with a clarity that stole her breath. The sudden, violent deceleration of the bike. The world lurching. Her body, with no will of its own, slamming into the solid wall of his back. The unforgiving leather of his jacket, the hard plane of his body against her chest, her stomach, her…
A flush, hot and sudden, bloomed across her chest and climbed her neck. She brought her own hands up now, pressing her cool palms to her flaming cheeks.
It hadn’t just been an accident. He’d done it on purpose. He’d brake-checked her. The realization buzzed through her, not with indignation, but with a thrilling, shameful spike of heat. He’d wanted her to hold on. He’d wanted to feel her against him. The deliberate way he’d grabbed her knees and pulled her flush before they’d even taken off… it hadn’t been just for safety.
Her mind replayed the sensation in obsessive detail: the vibration of the engine thrumming up through the seat, between her thighs, a constant, intimate pulse. The way her arms had locked around him, her fingers seeking purchase on the hard leather over his stomach. The heat of him, even through their clothes. The smell of him—motorcycle exhaust, leather, and something spice, something clean and dark—filling her helmet. And that moment, suspended in terror and speed, when every part of her was pressed against every part of him.
She flopped backward onto the bed, staring up at the delicate crystal teardrops of her chandelier. A soft, mortified groan escaped her lips. God. She was blushing like she was nineteen again, hiding in her room after he’d visited Caleb, dissecting every half-smile, every casual touch. This was different. This was adult. This was visceral.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the image, but it only got clearer. Her phone was gone, with him. The creepy texts were his problem now. And instead of feeling terrified, all she could feel was the ghost of his body against hers and the devastating warmth of his approval.
The ghost of his body against hers and the devastating warmth of his approval lingered in the quiet room, a tangible heat on her skin. She rolled onto her side, facing the vintage rotary phone on her nightstand. It was a silly, dramatic piece, black and heavy, but Caleb had insisted on a hard line for security. Right now, it felt like a tether.
She sat up, the velvet bedspress whispering under her. Her fingers hovered over the cool, numbered dial. He’d asked her to call. He’d told her to. This wasn’t her being needy. It was following orders. She lifted the receiver, the weight familiar in her hand, and brought it to her ear. The dial tone was a low, steady hum. She punched in the number she knew by heart, the clicks of the dial slow and deliberate.
Each rotation felt like a confession.
Across the city, in a darkened room lit only by the cool glow of twelve monitors, Rebel’s phone vibrated on the steel desk. He didn’t reach for it immediately. On the center screen, Sammy was sitting on the edge of her bed, the black receiver pressed to her ear. He watched the line of her throat as she swallowed. He saw her free hand pull at a loose thread on the velvet comforter.
He let it ring a third time, watching the tiny furrow appear between her brows on the high-definition feed. He wanted to see that flicker of uncertainty. Then, with practiced calm, he picked up.
“Talk to me.” His voice was a low rumble, stripped of its usual casual edge. It was the voice he used only for her in moments like this.
“Hey.” Her voice came through the landline, clearer and more intimate than a cell, a direct wire into her sanctuary. “It’s me. I’m… I’m in my room. Door’s locked. I checked everything. Twice.”
“Good girl.” The words left his mouth before he could filter them, soft and possessive. On the monitor, he saw her breath catch, saw her eyes close for a second. A reward. A precise, psychological caress.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. His eyes never left the screen. She had changed. The club dress was gone, replaced with an oversized black band t-shirt that slipped off one pale shoulder. Her hair was down, a dark waterfall against the deep jade wall. She looked younger. Softer. Entirely his.
“I feel kinda stupid calling,” she said, a faint laugh in her voice. It was nervous. Sweet. “It’s just a text. Well, creepy texts. But you’re probably busy.”
“I’m never too busy for this.” He watched her pull her knees up to her chest on the bed, the shirt riding up her thighs. The camera angle from the upper corner of the room was perfect. He had designed it to be. “Your phone’s hooked up to a trace program. It’s running now. Anything comes in, I’ll know before you do.”
“That’s… intensely competent.” She paused. “What were you doing before Caleb called you tonight?”
He smiled, a faint, private curve of his lips she couldn’t see. His gaze flicked to another monitor showing a frozen frame of her dancing at club BLOOD.
“Stuff. Why? You keeping tabs on me now?”
“Maybe.” The word was barely a breath. On screen, she traced the spiral cord of the phone with a fingertip. “I just… I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t there. To get me. Or to deal with… this.”
He heard it then—the vulnerability, the open-ended need. She didn’t want to hang up. The silence on the line was a live wire. He could hear the soft sound of her breathing, syncopated with the faint hum of the server banks in his own room.
“You’d have figured it out,” he said, his voice deliberately rough to counter the warmth spreading through his chest. “You’re tougher than you look in that shirt.”
She went still on the monitor. Her eyes darted around her room, a faint, confused smile touching her lips. “How did you know what shirt I’m wearing?”
Shit. The thrill of the slip shot through him, sharp and electric. He covered it smoothly, the lie effortless. “Lucky guess. You own approximately fifty band shirts. It’s either that or the silk nightgown your mom bought you, and you hate that thing.”
Her laugh was genuine this time, a light, relieving sound in his ear. “God, that thing. It feels like being hugged by a slug.” She settled back against her pillows, relaxing. The tension from her shoulders melted away, replaced by a drowsy comfort. He had redirected her. He was safe, watching from the shadows again.
“See? I pay attention.” The truth of the statement was a canyon beneath the simple words. He paid attention to the brand of her shampoo, the book on her nightstand, the specific way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was tired.
“You’re different tonight,” she said softly, her voice muffled slightly as she turned her face into a pillow.
“Am I?”
“Yeah. Less… sarcastic. More just… there.” She was drifting, comforted by the sound of his voice in the dark. On screen, her eyes were closing, then fluttering open, fighting sleep. “It’s nice.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just watched as she nestled deeper into the pillows, the phone still cradled against her cheek. Her free hand drifted absently across her stomach, under the hem of the t-shirt, her fingers tracing idle patterns on her skin. His own breath hitched. The monitors showed every detail: the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheek, the slow, relaxed movement of her hand over her ribcage, the pale strip of skin above the waistband of her underwear.
He was a voyeur in a temple of his own making. This was his grace. This was his sin.
“Rebel?” Her voice was thick with impending sleep.
“Yeah, little ghost?”
“Stay on the line ‘til I fall asleep?”
His fist clenched on the desk. The moral fissure inside him widened. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice sandpaper-soft. “I’m right here.”
He watched, silent and utterly rapt, as her breathing evened out into the gentle rhythm of sleep. Her hand stilled, resting on her stomach. He didn’t hang up. He listened to the soft, static hum of the line, and to the even softer sound of her sleeping breath, while his eyes remained fixed on the luminous screen, tracing the lines of her body in the dark.