Beneath The Skin(123)

Oh my god, he smells so good. He could have come from three hours of working out, or from a morning of transporting heavy props and set pieces backstage. Who knows. Who cares. His scent intoxicates me, just like it did that first day at the mixer.

Does he always smell like this?

“There’s all kinds of gels,” Dick goes on. “See, with them, the lights get colors, or get shapes, or get …”

Clayton’s big, firm body is like a bonfire at my side. I feel his heat. Does he know he’s standing next to me? Is this intentional, or completely incidental that the hottest guy in the room is so close that I could climb him? Oh, damn, I want to climb him.

“Now, if you come in close and look here …”

Everyone takes a step forward, crowding each other to get a better look at—something—and I find myself pushed by a guy to my right … which causes me to lean into Clayton unintentionally.

My skin touches his.

I feel the tight, rock-hard meat of his arm. It’s as firm as I expected, and then a little more. I don’t dare look in his direction. My heart is racing so fast, I wonder if he can feel my pulse through the skin of our forearms.

Dick goes on. Something about lamp houses. Something about ellipsoidal reflector spotlights. And my mind goes on about what I’d do if I found myself stuck in a room alone with Clayton.

He’s half a foot taller than me, maybe more. It’s the perfect height for me to lay my face on his big, muscled shoulder … if I just tilted my head a tiny bit. Just a tiny, tiny bit.

I’m so close to him that I’m starting to sweat.

Then the crowd starts to move. Clayton goes with them and, after half a second of despair, I follow to the other end of the stage where Dick starts to explain about something to do with the pulley system—all the ropes lined up along the wall that connect to all the things hanging high above us.

I realize with frustration that there’s now a person between Clayton and I. The magic is lost. I stare at the professor sullenly and find I can’t even focus on what he’s saying. Every word flitters by my face, unheard.

“The counterweight system is dangerous. This is not a toy. Learn to use it properly. Want to give us a demonstration?” Dick asks, giving a wave of his hand.

He seems to have signaled Clayton, who cuts through the crowd and positions himself at the ropes. I’m alive again, just like that. Watching the way his body moves is hypnotizing. Without instruction, he knows precisely what to do, flipping some lever with his big hands … those big hands that seem to make love to every little thing they touch. Then, he unwinds something else and grips the rope, fingers wrapping around it the way they might embrace a lover. He gives the rope a solid tug, the veins in his thick biceps popping, and something happens behind me.

The whole class turns to watch, but I keep my eyes focused right where they are, already watching the most beautiful thing in the world.

His hands still firmly gripping the rope, Clayton’s eyes lower, catching mine.

I hold my breath. I experience a jolt of fear … or a jolt of excitement. I can’t seem to tell the difference between the two right now.

And his eyes change. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He recognizes me, I realize as my heart quickens. Yet still, I don’t look away.

The professor must’ve said something because the whole crew moves to the two long battens—which are steel pipes from which curtains or set pieces or lights are hung—that have been lowered. I finally allow that to break my gaze from the distraction that’s Clayton, forcing myself to pay attention to Dick.

That attention is short-lived. Not a moment later, Clayton has returned from the counterweights, and he’s right at my side yet again. I just can’t catch a break, can I? Not that I want one. I’ve never been so worked up in all my life. I’m in agony standing next to him. I feel my pulse in my neck. I can barely breathe evenly.

His arm brushes against mine.

Total. Fucking. Agony.

“Lighting creates atmosphere. Lighting turns the barren nothing of a stage into the snowy Alps, the lobby of a hotel, or the bowels of a whale. Lighting gives life to the cast onstage,” states Dick, our mildly inspired professor. “Without light, we are all a bunch of shit-shoveling nobodies in the dark, aren’t we?”

Clayton inhales deeply. Just in that inhale, I hear the depth of his voice. There’s something so intimate about it, like I’m already getting to know him even without having shared a single word. Then, he exhales deeply, and half that breath tickles my arm and sends shivers of awareness through me.

I am one seriously obsessed stalker right now.

“Short day. That’s all, my little light monkeys. I’m leaving the sign-up sheet at the foot of the stage. Sign up for whichever lighting shift you want, and that’ll be your shift every week for the rest of the semester. Crew shifts start next week. There’s lots of options to accommodate all kinds of classing schedules, so if your whiny ass needs some special treatment, come have a chat with me and we’ll figure something out.”