The Misfit (Oakmount Elite #5)

15. Lee

FIFTEEN

lee

The definition of freedom can be many things to many people. For me, freedom smells like coffee and Thai takeout, not bourbon and old money. My new apartment isn’t much, nothing like Sterling Manor, but it’s mine. It’s amazing what a change in atmosphere can do to a person’s mood. Inside these walls are no judgmental portraits, no father’s disapproving sighs echoing down hallways, no mothers rearranging everything I own to be more suitable.

Inside this place, I can be me, and that’s a freedom I’ve never truly experienced before.

I sprawl on my couch, counting the water stains on the ceiling just because I can. I could’ve rented out one of the apartments at Drew’s newly built complex, but I didn’t want to ask, nor did I want him to think I wanted a handout. Plus, this place makes me feel better—less like the famous playboy and more like a normal fucking guy.

Speaking of normal. I’m pretty sure Salem’s habits are becoming mine, but here, alone, I don’t mind. It’s weirdly soothing. Even when I don’t need to count or measure or sanitize for Salem’s sake, I still find myself doing it anyway because I’ve realized it settles me.

It helps to ground me and remind myself of who I am instead of who the world wants me to be. Choosing to forgo another round of counting tiles, I let my gaze travel around the room.

One, two, three spots that need fixing. Four boxes left to unpack. Five reasons I’m never going back to … My phone buzzes with an incoming call. I pick it up and stare at the screen. My Mother’s face fills it, her perfectly composed image somehow managing to look disappointed even in digital form.

Fuck.

“Mother.” I don’t answer until the third ring because I know it irritates her to wait.

“Darling.” Her voice drips honey-coated venom. “I trust you’re settling into your alternative living situation?”

I close my eyes, counting breaths like Salem taught me. “The apartment is fine.”

“Hmm.” The sound carries years of disapproval. “And your … relationship? The one that prompted this ill-advised move toward independence?”

My jaw clenches. Of course. She’s checking up on my “ progress. ” Making sure I’m still playing straight for the family name.

“Salem is fine.” More than fine. Perfect, actually, in ways I can’t explain to anyone, especially not my mother.

“Wonderful.” She doesn’t sound like it’s wonderful at all. “Then you’ll both attend the foundation’s charity gala next weekend. The Sterlings are hosting this year, and the event is set to take place at The Grand Hotel downtown.”

It’s not a question. Not even close to a request. My mother doesn’t ask. She commands.

“Mother—”

“The entire board will be there,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “And the Hendersons. Their daughter, Charlotte, is newly single, in case you were wondering. It’s really such a shame her engagement ended.”

Again, she doesn’t sound as if she’s saddened by the news. What it really sounds like she’s saying is, follow my orders, do what you’re told, and wear the mask I want or face the consequences . Did I mention that image is everything to her?

“We’ll be there.” The words taste like ash. “Text me the details.”

“Wonderful.” This time, she means it, and that terrifies me. “Oh, and Lee? Do make sure your girlfriend knows how to behave at these events. We wouldn’t want any unfortunate incidents to take place.”

The line goes dead before I can respond. Before I can defend Salem or tell my mother to fuck off or explain that Salem is worth ten of their society princesses. And just like that, the freedom I felt earlier is ripped right out from underneath me. It’s an illusion. With my mother meddling in my life, I’ll never be free, not truly.

“Fuck!” I hurl my phone onto the couch and run both my hands through my hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. Guilt eats away at my insides. This obsession with Salem is out of control. I never should’ve taken an interest in her or looked into who she was and what made her so unique. Now I have to wonder if bringing her into this was ever a good idea. She can barely handle coffee shops on bad days. How the hell is she going to manage a ballroom full of Sterling-approved vultures?

The crowds, the touching, the judgment …

The all-too-familiar rush to reach for a bottle of alcohol and drown inside it snakes beneath my skin.

One reason to cancel: I can’t expose her to my family’s cruelty.

Two reasons to go: If I don’t, they’ll never believe this is real. If I don’t, my mother might stoop low enough to start putting these poor women into my bed in hopes they will turn me straight. A chanting prayer echoes in my head, followed by the crack of a belt.

Fuck this. I give in to temptation and snatch the nearest bottle of alcohol off the table, twist off the cap, and swallow, letting it burn away the memories.

Three reasons I’m terrified: Because it is real. Because I’m falling for her. Fuck, I already have. I’m obsessed with her, and the moment we shared in my bed when I claimed her sealed the deal for me. If I’m being honest, none of this was ever fake, at least on my side.

I’m a mess, a fucking mess, but I don’t want to let her go. I also don’t want to drag her deeper into my shit.

But isn’t that why you approached her in the first place? To be your fake girlfriend?

My phone buzzes again with Mother’s text—event details attached with a note about appropriate attire. As if I don’t know how to dress for a formal fucking event. As if I haven’t been performing for their approval my entire life.

Except it’s different this time.

This time, more is at stake. I can no longer worry only about myself. I did this and asked her to pretend for me. I can’t leave her to be thrown to the wolves. Still, my doubts linger. We’ve been preparing for this exact scenario, but I don’t know if she’s ready. I guess my only option is to make it as easy as possible for her, just like she makes things easier for me.

I grab my phone and search my contacts for the number to our family tailor.

If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. And fake girlfriend or not, I’ll make certain that Salem outshines every real society princess in that ballroom.

Which means I’ll need to find her the perfect dress.

Putting the bottle of alcohol down, I pull out my laptop. I focus my attention on scouring the internet for dresses. Forty-three minutes later, I’m scrolling through designer dresses on a website the tailor sent me while my brain runs calculations.

Not just sizes and prices—those are irrelevant when you have the Sterling name—but all the little details that matter to Salem.

Fabric that won’t irritate her skin. Nothing so restrictive that it might trigger a panic attack. A cut that makes her feel protected but stunning. Something that says “I belong here” to all the vultures who’ll be watching her every move. Frustration mounts the longer I search for the perfect dress that never appears.

Instead of tossing my laptop out the window, I shoot Bel a text.

Me : SOS. Trying to find a dress for Salem.

I navigate back to the browser and scroll through the page.

“No, no, definitely not …” I mutter, rejecting another dozen options. Too much exposed skin. Too many beads that could fall off and disrupt her counting. Too?—

Thankfully, Bel replies to my text right then.

Bel: Hold please. I have the perfect dress.

Me: You’re the best. If I was with you, I would kiss you right now.

My phone buzzes with a response that only includes a link. I click on it, and it brings me to some boutique. The screen loads, and I damn near gasp at the sight of the dress on the screen. It’s fucking perfect—deep burgundy silk that will make Salem’s brown eyes look soft and sparkling, a high neck for modesty, long sleeves that will meet her gloves, and a flowing skirt that won’t make her feel trapped.

Me: Scratch that. I would marry you.

Me : But the gloves …

Bel : Already handled.

Lifesaver. If Drew doesn’t marry her, I may consider it.

All I can do is smile when another message comes through with a link. I click on it, and once again, I’m so thankful that one of my best friends found such a great-ass woman.

The website is for custom silk gloves from some designer I’ve never heard of, available in three different lengths and styles. The price tag is astronomical, but the description promises the softest silk imaginable.

One pair in classic elbow length. The next opera length with tiny pearl buttons.

Fuck it. I buy three different pairs to make her feel safe and elegant at the same time.

I smile, and the desire to share this news and excitement with Salem bubbles out of me. I should text her. Yes. But then I pause, the impulsive reaction fading into fear. Fear of failing, of fucking this all up. How do I explain that I’m not doing this all for show, that she’s not some trophy I want to show off? That I want her to feel as beautiful as I see her?

I’m reminded of her comment at the coffee shop the other day. She said not to complicate things, not to make it harder for her to separate real from fake, but none of this is fake. It never was to me … yet to text her and share these little details with her would blur the lines. It would complicate things. So even if I want to share this moment with her, I know I can’t.

Irritation over the situation pricks at my skin, but I don’t let the anger drag me down. I put that energy into ensuring the event will be as good of an experience for her as it is for anyone else. Navigating to the browser, I search for the hotel’s number and hit the call button.

The manager answers on the first ring—Sterlings always get priority service.

“Mr. Sterling, how can I assist?”

“The charity event next weekend.” I pace my living room, counting steps. “I need some special arrangements made.”

“Of course, sir.”

This is what wealth and having the perfect last name get you.

“Great. So the entrance needs to be completely clear. I want no crowds. And I need a private space set up with sealed water bottles, hand sanitizer, and the works. High-end stuff, nothing that looks medical.”

“Certainly. Anything else?”

I think of Salem, of all her careful patterns and needs. “Yes, I need the exact number of tiles in every room we might enter. Floor and ceiling. And make sure all the surfaces are sanitized. Three times.”

There’s a pause, then, “Three times, sir?”

“Three times,” I confirm. “It’s important.”

I go over the details a couple more times with the manager. Making sure that everything is perfect, safe, and controlled. The way Salem needs it to be. The way I need it to be for her. It’s the least I can do, knowing I’m dragging her into a mess that will most likely induce a panic attack and require, at minimum, a month’s worth of therapy.

When I finally hang up, I’m still irritated, but for reasons that I can’t change. I stare at my phone. At the dress website, which is still open. At the glove order confirmation. All that’s left is to ask her to accompany me. Of course she will go. All I need to do is tell her when and what to wear, but for me, it’s deeper than that. It’s personal.

For the first time in my life, I want something, someone who I don’t deserve, that I can’t really have. It’s no longer us practicing at the coffee shop. Meeting my family is tossing her into shark-infested waters. I won’t be able to hide all the fucked-up pieces of who I am anymore. So far, she’s only seen what I’ve allowed her to see. At the event, the veil will be pulled back. She’ll step inside my world completely, and I don’t know what she’ll think or make of it.

If she’ll be able to handle it.

We’re more alike than different, but I’m still terrified she’ll decide I’m not worth it and run when she sees all of the dirty, broken pieces of my soul. It doesn’t matter. What’s real or fake. What she sees or doesn’t.

The moment I tell her about the event, she sends me a thumbs-up. I don’t know why, but I stupidly expected her to say something else or react another way.

Me: You’re still going to be my plus-one, right?

My heartbeat thunders in my ears while I wait for her response. It comes a second later.

Salem: Of course. Fake girlfriend to the rescue.

I drop the phone onto the couch and sag back against the cushions, hoping I don’t mess this up and praying I will somehow find a way to make her mine.

The days pass at a painstakingly slow pace. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the bad to happen because you know eventually it will. By the time Saturday arrives, I’m a bundle of nerves. I try to rein in my anxiety, which is even worse than usual, with the knowledge that Salem will need me far more than I need her today.

I wake up early, shower, shave, and head straight to Salem’s house. Noah answers the door before I can knock, his protective brother stance only slightly undermined by his basketball shorts and bedhead. His gaze quickly roams over me before dropping to the garment bag in my hands, then ping pongs over to the distinctive blue box from the glove designer.

“You know it’s seven a.m., right? Most people sleep in on the weekends.”

“Your sister is not like most people. She’s up at six every morning,” I reply, and his expression softens. Of course I know her schedule. I know all her patterns now.

“Seven on Saturdays,” Noah corrects but steps aside to let me in. “Except today—today she woke up at five a.m. and decided she needed to rearrange her closet to make room for the dress you sent her.”

Holy fuck. I never thought I’d be excited to watch someone try on a dress. Then again, I have yet to meet anyone else like Salem. “Has she tried it on yet?”

“Nope. Just been staring at it.” He closes the door, then fixes me with a serious look. “She’s nervous, man. About all of it. Your family, the event …”

“I know.” I adjust my grip on the packages, more determined than ever to ensure she has a good time this evening. “That’s why I’m here early. Thought it might be good to give her some time to process everything. Maybe answer any questions she has.”

Noah studies me for a long moment. Way longer than necessary. “You really care about her, don’t you?”

I don’t even bother answering his question. We both know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care. Thankfully, Salem’s voice drifts down from upstairs before I conjure up an answer.

“Noah? Who are you talking to?”

“Your fake boyfriend brought presents!” he calls back, emphasizing the “fake” in a way that makes me want to punch him.

There’s a squeak of latex from above, then the careful sound of Salem counting steps as she descends the stairs. One, two, three … all the way to twenty-seven. She appears around the corner, already dressed—soft gray sweater, perfect ponytail, fresh gloves.

“Lee?” Shock fills her brown eyes, which only grow wider when she notices the packages in my hands. “You didn’t have to come early.”

“Yes, I did.” I hold up the blue box. “These needed a proper presentation.”

Noah makes a gagging sound and retreats to the kitchen, leaving us alone in the foyer. Salem’s hands twist together, latex squeaking in that way that means she’s fighting anxiety.

“The dress is beautiful,” she whispers. “Too beautiful. Too much.”

“Pantry Girl, prepare to be amazed because you haven’t seen anything yet.” I set the garment bag aside and open the blue box. “These are the real stars of the show.”

Her breath hitches when I slowly pull out the first pair of gloves. The silk catches the morning light, the color of burgundy matched to ensure they look the same.

“May I?” I ask, holding them out.

She nods, extending one trembling hand. I don’t rush her, don’t push. I just wait while she counts her breaths.

One inhale.

Two exhales.

Three seconds of courage.

Her latex-covered fingers brush against the silk, then she gently swipes it across her forearm, and her small gasp is worth every penny I spent on these things.

“They’re so soft,” she whispers, tracing the tiny pearl buttons. “I’ve never…”

“There’s more.” I reveal the other pairs, displaying each of them. “Different lengths, different styles. All of them are yours.”

“Lee …” She looks from the gloves and up at me, then back again. When she speaks, her voice cracks with emotion. “This is too much. The dress, the gloves, all of it.”

“There is no price tag to your comfort.” I hate how rough my own voice sounds, the words are too honest for our fake relationship. “I want you to feel safe. Beautiful. Like you belong.”

Tears glisten in her eyes. I didn’t plan to make her cry, but I won’t lie. I love how happy this makes her. “Help me choose?”

“Always.”

We end up on her living room floor, surrounded by silk and possibility. She touches each pair through her latex gloves, counting the buttons and measuring the lengths against her arms. I demonstrate how each style works, pretending I didn’t spend hours watching videos on YouTube to learn. I don’t give a fuck what the rest of the world thinks about Salem. All I care about is how she makes me feel and how I make her feel in return.

“So what’s it going to be, Pantry Girl?”

“Hmm, they’re all so beautiful.”

“Of course they are. Like I would pick anything that wasn’t for you.”

Two pink spots appear on her cheeks. She has no reason to be bashful, but seeing those spots on her cheeks … they remind me of the pink flush that covered her skin, the dusky-pink color of her nipples, and her pretty pussy.

My cock hardens at the flicker of memories in my head.

“The longest ones,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “With the pearls?”

“Perfect choice.” I collect the gloves. I’m pretty sure I have a boner now. “Want to try them on with the dress?”

She bites her lip, and I already know she’s counting the pros and cons in her head. “Will you … will you stay? While I change? I want you to be the first to see it.”

Even if I couldn’t stay, if I had somewhere else to be, there is no way in hell I would miss this moment with her. I glance around at the empty room, then lean forward, my hand hovering just above the soft skin of her cheek. I’m tempted to touch her, but I always make certain it’s something she can handle. I scan her features for any signs of anxiety or discomfort. When I find none, I gently cup her cheek.

“I guess your dad wouldn’t appreciate it if I joined you, would he?”

She laughs, her breath fanning against my lips. “Probably not.”

Her gaze drops to my lips, and when her tongue darts out over her bottom lip, I groan. “What about a kiss?”

“Okay, but only a kiss.” She smiles, and I swallow up that smile, pressing my lips to hers. I’m greedy with her, hungry for more.

She kisses me back, threading her gloved hands into the hair at the nape of my neck. When I press deeper, swiping my tongue between her lips, she meets me stroke for stroke as if she’s been just as needy as I’ve been since the first time we had sex. And I’ve been so fucking needy for her.

I push gently to ease her onto her back, but her hands come to my chest to stop me. When I break the kiss, she’s panting against my mouth. “We can’t … not here.”

I take a deep breath and glance down at my hard dick outlined in my jeans. She looks, too, and for some reason, that turns me on more. “Go before I decide I can’t let you.”

She sighs and gathers herself. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll count ceiling tiles until you’re ready,” I promise.

Her smile is small but real. “Forty-seven in the living room.”

“Forty-eight if you count the half tile by the window.”

“You noticed that?”

I don’t tell her I notice everything about her now. Don’t tell her how deep under my skin she’s gotten. Don’t tell her that none of this feels fake anymore.

Instead, I just nod and start counting tiles while she gathers up the dress and gloves.

Both of us pretend this is normal.

Both of us are lying.

Of course she’s perfect in the dress, and I can’t stop looking at her. She changes back, and we spend the day lying around her bedroom, me watching her while she studies and easing her panic when it arises about the event. I wish I didn’t have to bring her tonight. It feels too fast when she announces we have to get ready.

I help her prepare, ignoring the way my body responds to every flash of her milky-white skin. The memory of the taste of her on my tongue. I don’t even try to resist planting a kiss where her neck meets her shoulder. Don’t even fucking try.

When we leave, her parents wait by the door, phones in hand, to take pictures like it’s prom. She’s embarrassed, but I hold her beside me proudly.

We spend the car ride in silence, her gloves whispering against one another when she clenches her hands instead of squeaking.

“No need to be nervous. I’ll be there with you every step of the way,” I remind her.

“I know. I trust you.” She smiles over at me, a few of the worry lines disappearing from her face. The Grand Hotel looms before us, all marble columns and old money pretension. I feel Salem tense beside me in the car.

“Remember,” I murmur, “we have a private entrance. And the quiet room I showed you on the hotel layout is just three rights and two lefts from the ballroom. Thirty-seven steps exactly.”

She nods, but her breathing has gone shallow. The burgundy silk of her dress shifts like wine in the moonlight as she starts to count.

“Wait.” I reach over, careful not to wrinkle her dress or disturb her gloves. “Let me?”

Another tiny nod.

“One diamond in each marble tile,” I start, giving her something to focus on. “Two doormen at the entrance. Three separate exits I’ve mapped out. Four sealed water bottles waiting in our private area. Five minutes minimum for any social interaction before we can excuse ourselves.”

Her breathing steadies as I continue, and I pretend not to notice how perfectly her hand fits in mine.

The valet opens her door, and I’m around the car before he can offer her his hand. She takes mine instead, silk against skin, and we both ignore the spark that jumps between us.

“Ready?” I ask, though I’m not sure which of us I’m really asking.

“No,” she whispers, then straightens her spine. “But I’m with you.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. She trusts me. Actually trusts me to keep her safe in this shark tank of society vultures and family expectations.

We make it through the private entrance without incident, the hotel staff maintaining perfect distance as instructed. I’m hyper aware of every person, every potential threat to Salem’s peace of mind. She stays close to my side, head high despite her anxiety.

And then my mother appears.

“Darling!” Katherine Sterling descends upon us like a perfectly coiffed storm front. Her eyes scan Salem from head to toe, cataloging every detail. “And this must be?—”

“Salem Masters,” I cut in before she can say anything cruel. “My girlfriend.”

The word feels simultaneously wrong and right. Not enough and too much.

“Charmed.” Mother’s smile is all teeth. “That dress is … unexpected. Very bold choice.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sterling.” Salem’s voice is soft but steady. “Lee has excellent taste.”

Mother’s eyebrows lift slightly at the implicit meaning—that I chose the dress, that I know what suits Salem, that we’re close enough for such intimacy.

“Indeed.” Her gaze shifts between us. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Everyone is simply dying to meet the woman who’s finally captured my son’s attention.”

She glides away before I can respond, but I feel Salem trembling slightly against me.

“Hey.” I turn her to face me, creating a bubble of space between us and the arriving guests. “We can leave. Right now. Fuck all of them.”

“No.” She straightens again, and god, she’s beautiful when she’s brave. “I’m okay. Just… stay close?”

“Always.”

We approach the ballroom doors, and I feel her count each step. Feel her gathering her courage. Feel her silk-covered fingers tighten on my arm.

The doors swing open, revealing crystal chandeliers and the city’s elite in all their glory. Music spills out, along with the buzz of gossip and judgment.

But as Salem’s hand finds mine, as we step into my world together, as everyone turns to stare at the Sterling heir and his mysterious girlfriend, I can barely breathe.

My anxiety climbs as Salem holds me. It wants to spiral, but I hold back, keeping it together for her more than anything else. She needs me to be present and here with her.

I snag a couple of drinks off a tray and make sure I keep mine filled as I lead her through the crowd. When I have a moment, I pop a couple of anxiety pills from my pocket to keep me steady. She needs me to be her anchor.

It’s all clowns and actors, and I hate that I’m one of them. That this world forces me to be one of them. And now I’m forcing Salem into this mess with me.

What have I done?