Beneath The Skin(141)

He pats the scary apparatus, which rattles horribly in response. “Giddy-up.”

The last thing I want to look like is some scared girl who can’t handle a little bit of height. Throwing my chin proudly in the air, I saunter over to the machine, determined to—as the lovely Dick put it—become intimate with Bertha. I’d really rather become intimate with the man who plugged her in.

Stepping into the basket, my shoe slips and I catch myself on the door. Clayton’s hands shoot out instinctively, grabbing a hold of my hips, and for a moment, we’re locked in place, staring at each other’s eyes. He lets go quickly, seeing that I’ve clearly caught myself from falling, and I feel my face flush again as I climb into the basket, gripping its railing so tightly, my knuckles bleed white.

Clayton steps into the basket with me. This is not the biggest machine I’ve ever been in, and I suspect its elevating platform we’re standing on was meant for only one person, or two small people at best. His body is nearly on top of mine when he shuts the gate and locks it.

I inhale his scent. My body shivers, consumed by the way Clayton smells—it’s like sawdust, sweat, and a hint of spice. The heat he exudes touches me as potently as his aroma, and I fight an urge to lean into him and just rake it all in.

This is madness. This is torture.

He turns to me. His face is so fucking close to mine, I feel his every breath on my forehead. “Ready?”

I nod.

He pushes a thumb into a console I didn’t notice until it’s too late, and the basket jerks, startling me, then slowly begins to rise. The vibrations tickle my feet. Bertha’s an old bitch, I think to myself. Clayton doesn’t even bother gripping the railing for balance; he just stands there, his lazily planted feet doing all the work of keeping him upright as we ascend.

He watches me the entire time. I can’t meet his eyes. The blushing in my cheeks stubbornly persists, refusing to calm even for a moment. I start to breathe in and out through my mouth the higher we get. I’m not afraid of heights, I remind myself, then take a peek down.

Big mistake. The stage is so, so far away. This machine is so damn rickety, it sways left and right as we go, giving me the impression that the whole basket we’re entrusting our lives with is secured to Bertha by two screws and a strip of tape.

“Nervous?” his soft, sultry voice asks.

I face him defiantly, despite my fears. “Petrified,” I answer sarcastically, then wonder if I actually meant the word.

To be fair, my fiercely gripping hands have not let go and my palms are starting to cramp.

That knowing, cocky smirk plays on his full, plush lips again. I involuntarily lick my own, thoughts of what I’d do with him alone in a room racing across my mind and rendering my face vulnerable for a second. I bet he can see my thoughts … these thoughts.

Then I realize I am alone in a room with him. A very, very big room. I glance down again. Fuck, I clearly don’t learn from my mistakes. My stomach spins and the machine keeps going up, up, up. How tall is this damn stage? This is the biggest auditorium I’ve ever been in. Texas. Everything’s bigger, or something.

“Here,” he says.

I look up at him, then notice what he’s indicating, following his nod. We’ve reached the hanging pipes of the fly system where curtains and certain set pieces are hung. There appears to be a flat, painted sun—or something—that hangs in the middle, likely left over from a summer production if I had to guess. Lighting instruments can also be hung here, or in the grid, which is even higher up.

“Do you ever …”

His voice startles me, as I was focusing on the flat-sun-thing so as not to be so damn aware of the basket swaying side to side. I lift my eyebrows. “Do I ever …?”

He swallows suddenly, appearing frustrated. The look comes out of nowhere, his abrupt change in mood casting a shadow over his face. Then, with a scowl, he whips his phone out of his pocket and starts typing. I think he’s texting a friend when he suddenly lifts the screen to my eyes:



Do u ever work in the grid?





Ever hung a light?





“Oh,” I mutter. “No. Not really.”

“No,” he mumbles, repeating my word. I wonder for a second if he’s aware that he echoed me, and then he plunges his face back into the phone, typing away. He shows the screen again:



U’re not gonna die.





U’re safe w me.





I still haven’t let go of the railing. “Bertha’s a bit shaky,” I explain, then catch the fact that I am, in fact, yelling and overpronouncing my words. “A bit shaky,” I repeat a touch more naturally. “B-Bertha.”