Untouchables Book 5: Eden [COMING SOON]

ELODIE

Men are remarkably predictable.

Give them what they want, and they instantly grow bored.

Dangle it over their heads—just out of reach—and they go feral.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Or rather, what Eden is doing.

Eden, not Elodie.

Elodie Flynn wears old college sweatshirts to bed and forgets to buy milk, so she’s forced to drink her coffee black.

Eden doesn’t forget anything.

Eden doesn’t cry at videos of soldiers coming home. Eden wears her hair down, her skin glimmering with gold dust, dressed in just barely enough fabric to cover the important bits.

Eden doesn’t get shy when someone looks at her too long.

Eden is exactly what the men watching her want her to be.

But Eden is off in thirty seconds, and Elodie isn’t sad about it at all.

I drag my hands down my chest, accentuating my breasts, and make sure to look the gentleman in front of me straight in the eye.

There’s something intoxicating about this part.

Not him.

Not even particularly the money, although I’m certainly not going to pretend that isn’t nice.

It’s the control.

The knowledge that there’s a grown man sitting three feet away from me who probably controls boardrooms and employees and numbers with more zeroes than I’ll ever see, and right now, he’s waiting for me to decide whether he gets another smile.

I give him one.

Bills instantly rain down on the stage, and I flip my hair off my shoulder with a wink.

The closing notes roll in, and I plant my hand on Sutton’s lower back, using her to steady myself as I lean into a tilt, one leg raised high above me.

The music fades out, and we relax back into a flurry of linked arms, winks, and blown kisses. Then we finally turn and slip backstage, laughing breathlessly.

We pile back into the changing room, still panting, bodies buzzing with adrenaline.

I love the contrast between the Nocturne the guests get—velvet, liquor, and polished brass—and the version we get.

Our home away from home.

There’s a half-eaten protein bar on Isla’s vanity, a broken heel on Sutton’s chair, and Violet is already undressed, casually talking to Emmaline in nothing but a pair of flip-flops.

I smile, sinking into my chair and pulling my hair into a bun.

My phone buzzes. And again.

Messages keep pouring in even after I grab it.

There are seven messages from Sage.

Of course. Serial double-texter.

I unlock my phone and check.

Sage: Are you alive?

Sage: Bring fries

Sage: And mayo

Sage: From that little place on Second and Garden

Sage: Don’t you dare come home with McDonalds

Sage: I know you’re judging me and frankly I don’t appreciate the negativity

Sage: Make it up to me by bringing fries and mayo

I can’t help but smile.

Elodie: It’s almost two in the morning

Three dots appear instantly.

Sage: I’m so proud of you for being able to tell time

Sage: Bring fries or sleep in the hallway

Sage: (just kidding)

Sage: (not about the fries)

I roll my eyes.

Elodie: Why are you even awake?

Sage: Waiting for fries apparently

Elodie: You weren’t waiting for fries until thirty seconds ago.

Dots appear, then fade. Then they come again.

Sage: Life comes at you fast, Elodie

I laugh under my breath.

Emmaline clocks it from across the room. “Are you texting a boy?”

I make a face. “No.”

She wiggles her brows at me. “That face says you’re texting a boy.”

“Just my roommate.” I pull my bralette over my head and slip on my robe.

Since Violet is still in the shower, I decide to skip it and tackle my makeup instead.

Five minutes later, Eden is gone. Dissolved into streaks of black, beige, red, and gold on a pile of makeup wipes on my vanity.

I slip on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt and glance at myself in the mirror.

Elodie is back.

I say goodnight to the girls and follow the hallway out to the hidden performer entrance in the old movie theater at the back of Nocturne.

The second I slide into my car, my phone buzzes again. I lock my doors and check the message.

Sage: 🍟

I try to suppress a smile.

Elodie: omw. But I’m getting you ketchup like a normal person. Mayo is gross.

Sage: Blame my European parents. See you and my fries and mayo soon <3

I roll my eyes, pulling out of my spot.

“You absolute saint.”

I haven’t even closed the apartment door.

Sage appears around the corner like I’ve summoned her with the scent of fry grease.

Her blonde curls are piled into the world’s least structurally sound bun on top of her head. She’s wearing plaid pajama pants, fluffy socks, and an old white T-shirt that says ‘BOOKS ARE BETTER THAN PEOPLE’ across the front.

Her eyes drop to the paper bag in my hand. “I could kiss you.”

I drop the bag onto the table and toe off my sneakers. “You say that every time you bully me into bringing you fries.”

She grabs the bag, already digging through its contents. “Because it’s my love language.”

I quirk a brow. “Bullying is your love language?”

“Acts of service is,” she corrects, popping a fry into her mouth. “The service being you bringing me fries.”

She turns and lets herself fall back onto the couch, the bag cradled safely against her chest.

I drop my keys into the bowl beside the door.

This is what I come home to every night—Sage Cruyssen, all chaos and blonde-haired charm.

When she first answered my listing eighteen months ago, I’d assumed she’d last six months, maybe seven.

My previous roommate had made it four before moving in with her boyfriend, and the one before that lasted five before deciding she wanted to ‘experience van life,’ which seemed like an unnecessarily whimsical way to announce homelessness.

Then Sage arrived, twenty minutes late with a coffee stain on her shirt.

But she brought me a coffee too. It was too cold, too sweet, and at least a quarter of it had made its way down her shirt, but I still appreciated the gesture.

And then she looked around the apartment and said, “Oh thank God, you’re normal.”

I should have known then.

“How was your date?” I ask, sinking down onto the couch beside her and stealing a fry.

“Wasn’t a date.” She puts her legs in my lap. “I was just meeting Britt’s brother. He was a douche.”

I reach over the armrest and pull a blanket from the basket. “Please be specific.”

“Talked about himself for an hour straight. Gave me all the details about fishing.” She wrinkles her nose. “I hate fishing.”

I cock my head to the side. “You could’ve told him that and saved both of you a bad night.”

“I needed an excuse not to see him again.” Sage pulls the blanket from my hands and drapes it over us. “How was work?”

I shrug. “Made fourteen hundred.”

She stops chewing. “Tonight?!”

“Mhm.”

I sink lower into the couch.

This is so much better than Nocturne.

I would never admit that to anyone there.

Nocturne is beautiful.

It’s champagne and velvet and money.

It’s men looking at me like I’m something invaluable.

And I like it.

I like Eden. I like slipping into her skin. I like knowing exactly what people see when they look at her.

But there’s something about coming home afterward that feels like sinking into a warm bath after a long day at work.

Here, Elodie is enough.

No one expects to see Eden’s effortless sexiness.

Sage has met her, just once.

She came to Nocturne with a friend six months ago, saw me on stage, stared for approximately ten seconds, and then screamed, “THAT’S MY ROOMMATE,” loudly enough that security nearly removed her.

She spent the rest of the night telling everyone within earshot that she gets to see me naked for free.

So much for mystique.

“You’re not listening.”

I blink. Sage is looking at me.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m tired.”

She smiles. “Go to bed, Elodie.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

I groan. “I still need to shower.”

She rolls her eyes. “Then go shower.”

I crack one eye open. “You’re asking a lot of me.”

Sage laughs. “Come on. We’ll go together. I need to brush my teeth anyway.” She swings her legs out of my lap and stands, taking the blanket with her.

Cold air immediately hits me. “Bitch.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

I reluctantly push myself upright and follow her down the hall.

Sage flicks on the bathroom light, squinting against the sudden brightness. Our bathroom isn’t particularly big, but we’ve gotten good at navigating it together. Eighteen months of sharing one sink will do that.

She reaches for her toothbrush while I start peeling off my clothes, the water already running to heat up.

I toss my clothes into the hamper, step into the stream, and groan. “Oh my God.”

“That good?” Sage asks around her toothbrush.

“I’m never getting out.”

“Fine. I’ll rent out your room.”

I close my eyes beneath the spray. “You’d have to find someone else to bring you midnight fries.”

She makes a face. “Good point.”

I wash quickly, shampooing the hairspray from my hair while Sage wanders in and out of the bathroom, eventually returning to sit on the closed toilet lid with her phone.

I push the curtain aside and reach for my towel.

Sage glances up.

I wrap the towel around my hair, squeezing the water from the ends.

When I look up again, Sage is still looking.

Not at my face—lower.

I pause.

It’s not unusual.

People look at me for a living.

Men stare at my legs, my chest, my ass. They watch me move beneath stage lights and throw money at my feet because they like what they see.

So Sage looking shouldn’t register. But it does.

Something small and unfamiliar curls low in my stomach.

Not discomfort—the opposite, actually.

I straighten slightly, pulling the towel from my hair and slowly drying my hands instead of wrapping it around myself.

Sage stares a little longer, and then her eyes flick back to mine, like she’s startling awake.

For one strange second, neither of us says anything.

Then her cheeks turn pink, and she immediately looks down at her phone.

I towel off, taking longer than usual. When I put my foot up on the side of the tub to dry my calf, I catch her looking again.

Interesting.

Sage blinks, then suddenly jumps to her feet. “I need to go to bed. Goodnight, El.”

I slowly put my towel on the drying rack. “Night, Sage.”

She disappears down the hallway.

I stare after her, then look down at myself.

Nothing Sage hasn’t seen before, but she was definitely staring tonight.

And I didn’t mind.

Maybe I liked it, actually.

I immediately shrug off the thought.

Of course I liked it. It’s literally my job to be looked at. To be wanted. There’s nothing strange about enjoying the attention.

Even if it’s from Sage.

But when I pull on my panties, there’s a suspicious slickness between my thighs that definitely wasn’t there before.

Hooked? Good 😏

I’m still writing this story, but it’ll come your way ASAP. Keep an eye on my wall—I’ll update you guys about the timeline as soon as I have enough to share!

Love, Viv ♥️