Deep Pockets (Kings and Rivals #1)

Chapter 12 – Morgan

12

MISTAKES WERE MADE

MORGAN

What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?

Lance and I stared at each other for a long moment, the air between us crackling with something dangerous and electric. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and for a heart-stopping second, I thought he'd reach for me again. The way his fingers twitched at his sides told me he was fighting the same battle I was. And God help me, for another horrifying moment, I thought I might let him.

Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the stairwell, the heavy metal door slamming behind him with a finality that left me shaken to my core. The sound echoed through the concrete space, each reverberation a reminder of what I'd just done.

For months, I'd worked on perfecting the nonchalance. Months of carefully crafted indifference, of keeping my voice steady when he walked into a room, of making sure my hands didn't shake when he looked my way. All that work building walls between us, creating the perfect facade of professional detachment—gone. Shattered like glass against concrete in the space of one kiss.

I stood there staring at the stairwell door as it slowly clicked shut, the hydraulic arm easing it into place with a soft hiss that seemed to mock my racing heart. My entire body was trembling, not just from the adrenaline of our argument but from the aftershocks of what we'd just done. The metal railing pressed cold against my back, and I realized I'd backed up against it, seeking something solid to ground me in reality.

Oh God. I clutched my hands to my chest, feeling the warmth still lingering on my lips, the taste of him still in my mouth—coffee and mint and something uniquely Lance that made my knees weak. I kissed him back. I had let it happen. Worse, I had wanted it with an intensity that scared me. My body still hummed with the memory of his fingers, the way his touch had ignited something wild inside me. Something I wasn't ready to face.

What had I been thinking?

You weren't thinking. That was the problem.

My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to break free, and I could feel the heat of shame crawling up my neck, spreading across my cheeks. This was so bad. So unbelievably, catastrophically bad. He'd pushed my buttons, sure—prowling into my space with that infuriating smirk, challenging me like he always did. But that didn't give me an excuse to completely lose my mind.

Now, I was the one who had to deal with the consequences. The mess. The fallout. Because there would be fallout. There always was with Lance.

I needed to get out of there. Stat.

Without another thought, I darted down the steps two at a time, my designer heels suddenly feeling like death traps. The sound of them clacking against the metal echoed in the quiet space, only amplifying the panic growing in my chest. Each step sent vibrations up my legs, and I was shaking so badly that I nearly tripped on the last landing. I caught myself on the railing, my palm slapping against the cold metal.

What had I done? How could I let myself get so close to him again? There was no plan for this, no way to spin this into something professional, something that wouldn't completely screw everything up. This wasn't like a business deal gone wrong—I couldn't just renegotiate terms or cut my losses.

I pushed through the door to the second floor and rushed down the hallway, eyes darting around for any sign of familiar faces. The last thing I needed was someone catching me like this. I was a mess, and everyone would know why. My braids had fallen out of their carefully styled updo thanks to Lance's hands—God, his hands in my hair, pulling me closer—and my silk blouse was askew. I was pretty sure my carefully applied MAC Ruby Woo lipstick was smeared all over my face, probably my neck too. The thought made me walk faster.

I checked my watch, the face of it slightly smudged. It was almost three. I fired off a quick yet professional—or what I hoped was professional—email to Sela, letting her know I was heading to the Co-op. My fingers trembled as I typed, and I had to backspace three times to fix my typos.

Then I got the hell out of dodge.

I was so distraught I hopped into the back of the nearest taxi and didn't bother waiting for a ride share, even though I had some credits saved up. The driver took one look at me in his rearview mirror and mercifully didn't try to make conversation.

Wasteful , my inner voice chided, sounding suspiciously like my father.

Well, I'd admonish myself later for the financial irresponsibility. Right now, I needed space. Distance. Air that didn't smell like Lance's cologne.

Ten minutes later, I was still feeling off- kilter as I stumbled into the Co-op, my heels catching on the industrial flooring. A few other artists glanced my way, but thankfully everyone here was too wrapped up in their own creative chaos to pay much attention to mine.

Bathroom. I needed a bathroom. I didn't want to think about what I must have looked like running into that taxi, but I knew I needed to see the damage for myself. I found one just down the hall and practically stumbled inside, then locked the door behind me and sagged against it, my chest heaving as I tried to calm myself down.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and it was even worse than I thought. My hair was wild, my cheeks flushed, and my lips—oh God, my lips—looked swollen and bruised from our kiss. The sight sent another wave of heat through me, memories flooding back. The way he'd grabbed me, spun me around, pressed me against the wall. The growl in his throat when I'd kissed him back.

"This is so bad," I whispered, my voice shaking as I pressed my palms against my burning face. "So, so bad."

I walked to the sink on unsteady legs, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. My reflection stared back at me, and I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. My braided updo was askew, pieces falling around my face, and my carefully applied lipliner was long gone.

She looked wild, desperate, and out of control. Everything I'd promised myself I wouldn't be again. I took a deep breath, willing the panic to subside. But it wouldn't. I was too rattled, too shaken by what had just happened. By how much I'd wanted it to keep happening.

I reached into my bag, my fingers trembling as I fished out my phone. I needed help. I needed Gwen. My heart pounded in my chest as I scrolled through my contacts and found her name. She'd know what to do. She always did. She'd probably tell me I was an idiot for kissing Lance in the first place, but she'd still help me clean up the mess.

I pressed her name and held the phone to my ear, biting my lip as I listened to the answering ring. Come on, Gwen. Pick up. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. And then... voicemail.

I cursed under my breath, hanging up and trying again. But still, no answer.

"Of course she's not picking up," I muttered, pacing the small bathroom like a caged animal. She was probably on the other side of the world sipping mocktails on some beach with Atticus, completely oblivious to the disaster her sister had just walked into. Gwen was living her best life while I was here having a meltdown in a public bathroom.

I tried again. Voicemail. Again. Damn it.

I threw my phone into my bag, my heart sinking. I couldn't deal with this alone. I needed help, needed someone to talk me down before I completely lost it. But who? I wasn't exactly swimming in close friends these days. And Devon, like my sister, was now halfway across the world, probably wrapped up in her own drama.

Before I could spiral further, the bathroom door suddenly rattled. Crap. I scrambled to compose myself, frantically smoothing my braids and wiping at my smudged lipstick. Whoever it was didn't need to know I was having a mini meltdown over a kiss in a stairwell. Over Lance. God, what was wrong with me?

I turned toward the door, ready to bolt, but then it opened, and a tall woman with wild brunette curls and deep tan skin strode in, her expression a mix of surprise and concern when she saw me. She wore paint-splattered jeans and a vintage band t-shirt, looking exactly like the kind of artist who belonged in a place like this.

"Oh," she said, stopping short. "Sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here."

I shook my head, forcing a weak smile. "No, it's fine. I was just... uh, fixing my hair." The lie felt pathetic even as it left my mouth.

She raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking over my disheveled appearance. "Fixing your hair, huh? Looks like you were fixing more than that."

My face burned, and I immediately looked away. Shit. I must look like a total wreck.

The woman didn't seem fazed, though. She stepped closer, a friendly smile spreading across her face. "I'm Amber, by the way. Are you new here? I just rented the corner unit. I'm a visual artist."

"I'm Morgan. Design. My unit is in the fourth row behind the neon sign guy." My voice sounded steadier than I felt, which was something at least.

"Oh, no way! I was eyeing your designs. That asymmetrical dress you have on the mannequin is super cute." Her eyes lit up, and she extended a hand. "It's nice to meet you."

I shook her hand, my nerves still frayed but settling slightly at her easy manner. "Nice to meet you." Her palm was smooth and soft, which was not what I'd imagined for a visual artist. She must be a painter, working with oils or acrylics rather than rougher materials.

Amber studied me for a moment, her smile softening as if she could sense the chaos churning beneath my surface. "You okay? You look a little... shaken."

I swallowed, trying to play it off. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just, you know, long day." The words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

She gave me a knowing look, her eyes narrowing playfully. "Uh-huh. Let me guess... Guy trouble?"

I blinked, taken aback by her bluntness. "How did you?—"

"I have a sixth sense for these things," she said, her grin widening. "Come on, spill. I promise I'm a great listener."

For some reason, her easygoing nature made me want to trust her. Maybe it was that she didn't seem to be judging me, or maybe I was just so desperate for someone to talk to that I couldn't hold it in any longer. I sighed, leaning back against the sink. "It's complicated."

Amber crossed her arms, her smile turning into a smirk. "Isn't it always? What happened? Did he screw up?"

"That's putting it lightly," I muttered, shaking my head. "This guy I can't stand... Well, he kind of kissed me." The words felt strange leaving my mouth, making it real.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Wait, consensually?"

I frowned, realizing where her mind was going. "Yes. God. Unfortunately, yes. We hooked up once, and then he acted like an asshole and kicked me out. I promised myself I'd never go there again, and now, well..."

"God, what an ass. But it sounds like he regrets pushing you away. So maybe not a screwup?"

"No, definitely a screwup," I said quickly, my face flushing again. "It's messy. Really messy." I didn't add that the mess was mostly in my head, in my heart, in places I didn't want to examine too closely.

Amber studied me for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, sounds to me like you need a drink, not a meltdown. But seeing as it's only three in the afternoon, we'll have to settle for a quick fix."

Before I could protest, she grabbed her bag and pulled out a small makeup pouch. "Come on," she said, motioning for me to face the mirror. "Let's get you looking like you didn't just crawl out of a stairwell after a make-out session."

Heat rushed to my face and I groaned, but there was no stopping her. She stepped in front of me, expertly reapplying my lipstick and fixing my smudged eyeliner. Her skin was olive, so the eye shadow and pressed powder she had worked somewhat on my skin tone. I'd have to do a better job once I was back at my desk, but for now, it would do.

"There," she said after a few minutes, stepping back to admire her work. "Good as new."

I glanced at my reflection, and to my surprise, I actually looked presentable. Amber had done a good job, and the chaos in my appearance had been tamed. But it didn't change the fact that I was still a mess on the inside, still reeling from the feel of Lance's hands, his lips, and the way he'd looked at me before walking away.

"Thanks," I said softly, a wave of gratitude washing over me. "I really needed that."

"No problem." She winked at me, putting her makeup away. "Listen, guys are stupid. They screw up all the time. Whatever happened, it's not worth beating yourself up over. Trust me, I've been there."

I nodded, letting her words sink in. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was overreacting, letting Lance get to me in ways he shouldn't. Or maybe this was just the beginning of something I couldn't control, couldn't fight, couldn't run from.

Amber glanced at me again, her expression softening. "You want to grab a coffee later? I know a great place around the corner. We can vent about stupid boys together."

I smiled for the first time in what felt like months, feeling something loosen in my chest. "Yeah. I'd like that."

We exchanged numbers quickly before she went to her station.

Maybe what I needed wasn't distance from what happened but perspective. And coffee. Definitely coffee.