Backstage with Laura King

I knew there would be a new girl. We'd crossed paths at another shoot months back. She had the same long throat, the same hooded eyes as a pop star whose name everyone pretends not to know. When I reached the set, a single shoe waited by the door, silver heel high enough to break an ankle. It dwarfed my foot, yet the arch looked too fine to ignore. I forced my toes inside anyway; the pressure bit sweet and mean. The place was full of strange leftovers: a plastic necklace, fake diamonds catching the key-light like cheap promises. She picked it up, draped it over her bare breast, laughed once, low in her chest. The sound traveled straight between my legs. Later, when the lights were killed and the camera forgotten, she kept the shoe on. Nothing else. She straddled the edge of the bed, heel digging into the mattress, thigh trembling as she rocked forward and took my fingers without a word. Sweat gathered at her collarbone. The ridiculous necklace slid between us, scratching skin each time she ground down. Every thrust knocked a tiny, perfect sound from her throat. Outside the window a siren rose and faded. Inside, only breath, the dull click of that one high heel against the frame, and the slick rhythm we made in the dark.