The Misfit (Oakmount Elite #5)

9. Salem

NINE

salem

I’m technically ten minutes early, but I can’t help but feel I’m late. Maybe because I’ve been sitting in my car for a while watching Lee perform the most unexpected show of my life.

He arrived a few minutes after I did. I know because I counted every second until he got out of his Jeep. I expected him to head straight inside The Daily Grind , order a coffee, and wait, but that’s not what he did. The backpack he brought in with him makes more sense now. How the heck would he have brought all the cleaning supplies in without getting a bunch of strange looks? And he wouldn’t need to bring books or anything.

I’ve been watching him systematically sanitize what I assume is meant to be my seat and all surrounding areas since. One, two, three wipes across the table’s surface. The chair gets the same treatment. Even the napkin holder hasn’t escaped his attention.

I clench my hands in their fresh gloves as he arranges sealed creamer cups in a perfect line. After a minute, he rearranges them, then does it a third time. The morning sun catches on his dark brown hair as he leans down to inspect his work, mumbling something to himself that makes him shake his head and start over.

He’s actually counting.

Like me.

Something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest as he disappears from my sight inside the windows, returning with what looks like sealed water bottles and individually wrapped straws. He sets them down, steps back, surveys the arrangement, then adjusts one bottle slightly.

“What are you doing?” I whisper to my empty car, directed at him, but I already know.

He’s making it safe. Making it perfect.

Making it mine.

My phone buzzes, shattering the moment.

Noah: You’re still sitting in the parking lot, aren’t you?

Me : Shut up.

I hate how obvious I am.

Noah: I know you too well. Just wanted to know if I needed to call in the fake emergency yet or not.

Me : Crisis averted. I’m fine. He’s just …

Noah : Weird? Triggering? Reckless?

Me: No. He’s … careful.

I hit send on the message and watch through the window as Lee runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes all the effort he put into styling it a waste. A moment later, he looks down, checking his phone once more before he returns to wiping down the table again. My phone vibrates once, twice, three times. After the third time, I look back down at the screen.

Noah: Careful? What does that mean?

Noah: Are you still there?

Noah: Faking appendicitis if I don’t hear from you in five.

All I can do is smile.

Me: I’m still here. Sorry I zoned out. He’s cleaning everything.

Noah : What?

Me : Like I would. Three times.

Noah : Huh? Maybe he’s crazy, too.

Me: Maybe we all are.

My phone screen lights up again, but I ignore it. Probably Noah with another check-in, or Mom wondering why I needed three new pairs of gloves this morning, or Dr. Martinez responding to my panicked mid-dawn text message. We have an appointment coming up, but I still needed … I don’t know … validation?

My attention is entirely on Lee. He’s fidgeting now, unable to keep still—leg bouncing, fingers drumming, constantly checking his phone. His eyes drift to my carefully prepared seat every few seconds, adjusting things minutely.

The contrast strikes me: his chaotic energy versus his precise attention to my needs. It’s like he’s containing his own nature to make space for mine. No one outside of my own family does that for me. No one …

“Fuck it,” I whisper, reaching for my door handle.

The leather squeaks against my nitrile gloves, and I head for the door. The bell above chimes as I enter, and I swear every molecule of air shifts inside me.

Exits (three—front door, kitchen, emergency).

People (seven customers, two baristas).

Surfaces to avoid (basically everything).

And one man, looking up at me like I’m something interesting and terrifying all at once.

“You came.” His voice is soft, and he remains seated instead of jumping out of his chair to greet me. Everything about his posture screams well-constructed restraint, minus his leg, which continues to bounce under the table like he’s containing lightning.

I do my best to focus on anything except how my heart is trying to escape my rib cage. “You cleaned.”

A flush of embarrassment creeps up his neck. “Yeah, I figured it might make things easier. Did I … did I do it right?”

His uncertainty catches me off guard. This isn’t the Lee that I’ve heard so many things about—the reckless, wild man who cares about no one’s opinion but his own. But it is him. I’m just seeing him in a different light. Unfiltered. Raw.

He watches me with those gray eyes, waiting to see if his efforts meet my standards. I approach the table slowly, inspecting his work. Everything is sealed. Everything is clean. Everything is perfect.

“You did it three times,” I say, not quite asking but stating.

His mouth quirks at the sides, and I won’t lie, it’s kind of adorable. “Seemed like the right number.”

I sink into my designated chair, arranging my phone and purse at the precise angle. A little too far to the left, and my anxiety will skyrocket. “Three is my lucky number.”

“Mine too, and I guess luck’s on my side since you’re really here this time.”

“I know. I’m sorry about …” I trip over my words. “It’s usually me who’s scaring everyone away. I mean, have you seen the gloves?”

“Your gloves don’t scare me, Salem. If anything, you pique my curiosity by being nothing like all the others.”

“I’m not really sure if that’s a good or bad thing, especially since everyone already has their assumptions about me.”

Lee merely shrugs. “I find it best to ask before assuming. Assuming makes an ass out of both of us.”

The way he speaks without a hint of judgment and the aloof energy surrounding him set me at ease. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by anything I’m doing. Something in my chest cracks open, the pressure escaping like air out of a tiny hole in a balloon.

This is definitely going to be a problem.

“You’re doing that thing again.” He leans forward. His elbow nearly knocks over the sugar packets, but he catches himself at the last second.

“What thing?” I try to sound casual while counting the ceiling tiles above his head. Forty-three. Always forty-three.

“That thing where you pretend you’re not counting everything in sight.” His voice drops a little lower, intimate. “All while I’m trying my hardest not to memorize every single detail about you.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” He grins, all dimples and dangerous charm. “So you haven’t noticed that I’m wearing a clean shirt? Or that I used your favorite sanitizer brand? Or that I’ve been watching your lips move while you count under your breath?”

I freeze because it feels like a trap. I’ve noticed. Subconsciously. The shirt he’s wearing (crisp black cotton, probably fresh from the package), the sanitizer (the expensive kind that doesn’t leave residue), and the way he almost touches me but stops just short of doing so, like he’s mentally reminding himself.

“You’re …” I swallow hard. “You’re very observant.”

“Only about things that matter.” His fingers drum against the table, creating a rhythm that matches my pulse. “Only about you.”

Only about me? He doesn’t even really know me. I mean, unless you take into account all the rumors and negative things said. The words hang between us, too honest for whatever this is supposed to be. Lee is a lot. His ADHD energy radiates across the table, making my skin buzz.

It’s a miracle, but somehow, it doesn’t set off my usual alarms.

“Well, look who it is. The freak and the fag.” Marcus’s voice cuts through our bubble like a knife. Lee’s whole demeanor shifts in an instant. Gone is the playful flirt, and in his place sits something dangerous and possessive. Before I can process what’s happening, he’s sliding around the table, directly into my space on the other side.

“Trust me,” he breathes against my neck.

Trust? I can’t trust him. I barely know him.

Although I don’t say either of those things. Not that it would stop him since his arm is already wrapping around my waist and pulling me against him.

Panic claws at my insides. I need to count, run, to … the panic starts to recede with every breath I take, and I focus my attention on his touch.

Careful. Deliberate. Clean.

His lips brush my ear. “Breathe, Salem. One, two, three, baby. I’ve got you.”

Then he tips his chin up at Marcus. I look up at Marcus too and bite back a gasp. Marcus’s face is swollen, both eyes black and blue.

“Hey, man, what happened? The vacuum cleaner you use to suck your dick finally fight back?”

A couple of the guys with him snicker, and Marcus shoots them a glare.

“Sterling …” That’s all he says in response, and man, is it loaded. Did Lee just replace me at the top of Marcus’s most-hated list?

Marcus and his cronies hover at the edge of my vision, but they’re already backing off. Lee’s hand spans my ribs, his thumb tracing small circles through my sweater. The gesture is intimate, claiming. A clear message to everyone watching: She’s mine .

“Got something else to say, Chen?” Lee’s voice carries that lazy danger that makes people nervous. His other hand comes up to play with my hair, and I find myself leaning into him despite every instinct screaming about germs and contact and him being too close .

“Just surprised,” Marcus mutters, already retreating. “Didn’t think she let anyone touch her.”

Lee’s laugh is low and dark. “Guess you don’t know everything about her, then, do you?”

They slink away, but Lee doesn’t move. He keeps me tucked against him like I belong there. Like this isn’t making his skin crawl as much as it should be making mine.

The stark truth is, it’s not.

Lee’s hand stays at my waist, and I watch the way people deliberately avoid looking our way now. It’s like he’s created a force field around us that no one dares to enter. His fingers absently trace patterns against my sweater while he checks his phone again, scowling at whatever message lights up the screen.

“Your mother?” I ask, guessing by his grimace as he surveys the screen.

“Always.” He locks the screen, but not before I glimpse words like suitable and family reputation.

“She’s curating a list of appropriate potential partners. All females, all from good families, and all guaranteed to pray the gay away. To make it even better, she’s holding my trust fund hostage until I find myself a suitable bride. I have to present my partner at the family charity gala when they announce my sister’s engagement.” The hostility in his voice is unlike anything I’ve heard come out of him, but it’s understandable.

I know what it’s like to have people want to fix you, change you, and make you into something more palatable, but my family, my parents, and my brother have all been nothing but supportive and kind. I can’t imagine what he’s going through without a family’s love and support. I’m not sure I’d still be alive without my own family lifting me up.

His phone buzzes again. Another text about a minister’s daughter.

All I can do is shake my head.

Lee needs a shield from his family’s matchmaking. Wait … that’s it. A light bulb goes off in my head. “Wait, did you say bride?”

His mouth shifts from pursed with contempt to twisted with playfulness. “I did indeed. My family wants to ensure I don’t go full gay and marry a man just to piss them off. If it didn’t mean losing actual millions, I’d honestly be tempted. It’s like the more they want me to do something, the more I rebel against it.”

I can help him. I feel better knowing there’s something I can offer him in exchange for his protection. Better than him just suggesting we date for show. This way, we’re both getting something out of it.

Plus, he’s gay, or bi, or knows it doesn’t matter. There’s no risk of any real feelings developing either way. I’m broken, and no one wants broken.

His thumb keeps drawing circles on my waist, and I realize he’s counting, too—unconsciously matching my breathing pattern.

“We could date.” The words tumble out before I can overthink them. “I mean, not for real. Fake. For show. Like you asked at Bel’s party. If you were serious … I mean.” I cut myself off abruptly so I don’t keep freaking rambling.

Lee’s hand stills against my waist, his whole body going quiet in a way I didn’t think was possible for him. Even his perpetual fidgeting stops.

“It makes sense,” I continue, my voice dropping lower. “You need your family off your back. I need … I need people to stop looking at me like I’m about to shatter. The assholes are more inclined to stay away from me with you around. Plus, you’re …”

“I’m what?” His voice is neutral.

“Safe.” I twist slightly to look at him. “You’re gay or bi? I’m sorry, I’m not sure about the terminology, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no risk of complications. No chance of real feelings making things messy. And I’m …” I gesture to my gloved hands. “Well, I’m me. You don’t have to worry about me getting attached or expecting anything real.”

Something flashes across his face—too quick to catch—before his usual playful smirk returns. “I’m something, all right.” He doesn’t linger on that comment. “You think I’m safe?”

“I’ve heard the rumors. About the bar fights when people make jokes. About the guy last week who got you arrested.” I feel him shift slightly but push on. “I know you’ve dated girls and done things with them, but let’s be honest, I’m not your type. I’m far from standard, from being anything you would ever want.”

“How do you know what my type is?” His tone is playful.

I shrug. “I don’t really, but it’s pretty obvious. I haven’t seen you with other girls who wear gloves or count their steps.”

“Maybe I’ve changed what my type is.”

“Sure.” I shake my head in disbelief. Even if he did, it wouldn’t ever work out.

Lee is a twister barreling straight through my perfectly aligned books, hand sanitizer, and overabundance of gloves. We’re opposites in every way, and that’s only one reason real dating would never work between us.

“Either way, when it comes to your family, I fit the bill, at least on paper. They want standard, normal. I’m neither of those things, but I can pretend to be …”

“Who gives a fuck what they think is normal or standard? What do you need, Salem?” His fingers resume their pattern on my waist, but there’s something different about his touch now. Something almost … possessive.

“Protection,” I whisper. “Legitimacy. A shield.”

He’s quiet for so long that I start counting my breaths again.

One, two, three …

“You really think I’m safe?” he finally asks, but there’s something in his voice I can’t quite read.

“Aren’t you?”

His laugh is soft and a little dark. “Oh, Pantry Girl. You have no idea how dangerous I could be.”

“Compared to your friends, you’re pretty tame, or so I’ve heard.”

“Tame?” He grins. “Don’t think even for a second that I don’t have the capabilities of being as depraved and fucked up as my friends simply because I don’t wear my darkness front and center. If anything, I’m even more dangerous. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for…”

“Are you telling me I should be scared of you?”

“Are you scared of me, Pantry Girl?”

Am I? Lee, his friends, The Mill. It’s all shrouded in secrets. Of course there are whispers. Everyone knows about the messed-up stuff they do, about what happens when you cross one of them. If I used any part of my brain to think through this response, I would say yes. But it isn’t any of those things that scare me. It’s the prospect of falling for him, wanting something I can’t have and was never mine for the taking.

As if my response is taking too long, Lee cocks his head to the side and frowns. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“No, I’m sorry.” I finally speak. “I’m not afraid of you. I don’t think you’d hurt me.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t. Now, if we do this,” Lee says after a long moment, shifting to face me fully, “we have to do it right. No half measures.”

I nod, already making mental lists. “Ground rules. Boundaries. A clear timeline?—”

“No.” His hand slides from my waist to catch my chin, making me look at him. “I mean, we have to be convincing. My family will watch every move. Look for any sign this isn’t real.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought about that part. About having to actually act like a couple in love.

“And Marcus?” His thumb brushes over my gloved knuckles. “He won’t buy it if you flinch every time I touch you.”

My throat goes dry. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we need practice.” His eyes drop to my lips, then back up. “Need to get comfortable around each other. If we’re going to do this, it needs to look real.”

“You mean …”

“We need to kiss, Salem.” The way he says my name makes something flutter in my stomach. “Not just once. Not just for show. We need to look like we can’t keep our hands off each other.”

“But you’re?—”

“A very good actor.” Something dangerous dances in his eyes. “The question is, are you?”

I swallow hard, watching his fingers trace patterns on my glove. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Let me kiss you. Right now. Think of it a … a trial run.”

“Here?” My voice squeaks. “In public?”

His smile turns wicked. “Where better to start our performance?”

One reason to say no: He’s gay? There’s an actual question mark in my brain right now.

Two reasons to say yes: We need this to be convincing.

Three seconds to decide: “Okay.”

His eyes darken. “Okay?”

“But—” I hold up a finger. “You have to sanitize your hands first.”

His laugh is surprised and genuine. “Already did, Pantry Girl. Three times.”

Of course he did. Lee Sterling is going to destroy me.

“Ground rules,” I manage, trying to focus as Lee reaches for the sanitizer again anyway. One, two, three pumps into his palm. “We need to establish boundaries.”

“Like sanitizing before touching?” His eyes sparkle as he rubs his hands together thoroughly. “Already planned on it.”

“And no tongue,” I blurt out, my cheeks heating. “I mean … that’s not … I can’t?—”

“Rule number one.” He cuts in, his voice firm but gentle. “I’ll always listen when you say stop, but you have to let me push your boundaries sometimes. You’ll never learn to function in society if you stay in your bubble of safety forever.”

The protest dies in my throat when I see the understanding in his eyes. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.

“Fine,” I whisper. “But not … not all at once.”

“Baby steps,” he agrees, and something warm unfurls in my chest at the way he says it. “Rule number two?”

I nod, gathering my thoughts. “No public displays without warning. I need … I need to prepare myself.”

“Except when someone’s harassing you,” he counters. “Sometimes we’ll need to act fast. Like with Marcus.”

“Fine. Emergency exceptions.” I watch him flex his re-cleaned hands. “Rule number three: This ends after your family’s gala.”

Something flickers in his expression. “Three months,” he supplies.

“Three months,” I agree. “Then we go back to normal.”

Lee leans closer, and I catch his scent—clean cotton and something spicy. “Rule number four: When we’re alone, we practice. Get comfortable with each other. Make it believable.”

My pulse jumps. “Starting now?”

“Starting now.” His hand comes up to cup my face, palm warm against my skin. “Last chance to back out, Pantry Girl.”

I should. I really should.

But …

“One more rule,” I whisper.

“Anything.”

“Don’t …” I take a shaky breath. “Don’t pretend too well. Remember, this isn’t real. It can’t be real. For either of us.”

His thumb brushes my bottom lip, and I watch his pupils dilate. “Trust me, Salem. I never forget what’s real and what isn’t.”

Liar , I think as he leans in. We’re both liars.

His lips brush mine, featherlight at first. Testing. Waiting for me to count my breaths, organize my thoughts, and prepare myself for contact.

One: His hand is clean.

Two: This isn’t real.

Three: He’s safe.

A low, throaty sound escapes him, and he presses closer. Suddenly, counting doesn’t matter anymore. His mouth moves against mine with devastating precision, like he’s mapped out exactly how to short-circuit my brain.

My gloved hands hover uncertainly until he catches them, placing one on his chest and the other in his hair along his neck. It’s soft and wafting whatever soap he uses. His heartbeat races under my palm, matching the erratic rhythm of my own. The kiss deepens, and I forget about germs, about boundaries, about the fact that this is supposed to be practice. I forget that he’s not really interested in me and that I’m broken and this is all pretend. There’s just Lee, tasting like coffee and the possibility of normal.

When he finally pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his storm-gray eyes appearing almost black. My lips tingle, and for once, I don’t feel the need to count or clean or cut and run. It’s like I’ve been electrocuted, and all I can do is stand there, trying to find balance.

“Well,” he says, voice rough. “I’d say that was convincing.”

I can only nod, still trying to remember how to form words.

“One more thing.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, possession in every line of his body. “From this moment on, you belong to me. There will be no one else. Not for pretend, not for real. I’m claiming you until we see this through. If another man touches you, looks at you, or even breathes in your direction, I will lose my shit.” His possessive undertone makes me shiver.

It should sound like part of the act, like another rule for our fake relationship.

It doesn’t. It sounds real.

“For three months,” I remind him weakly.

His smile is all predator. “Three months,” he agrees. “Better make them count, Pantry Girl.”

As I watch him gather up his backpack to leave, his words echo in my head: You belong to me.

Four simple words that sound like a threat.

Or a promise. Or both.

What have I just agreed to?

More importantly, why do I want to find out?