Chapter 32
BENNETT
Iwalk away from Tori like it doesn’t rip me in half.
Like my fingers don’t know every curve of her body.
Like I can’t still taste her on my tongue.
Like my heart doesn’t beat for her.
Optics.
It’s always about fucking optics.
And I’m still the liability my dad always said I was. Still the same guy people expect to fly off the handle, the most likely to throw hands or say something stupid.
Right now, I’d love to do just that.
Tell Eleanor to shut the fuck up, that Miles guy to get his head out of his ass.
Instead, I take a deep breath and disappear into the glittering crowd, avoiding people.
Especially her.
Best if I stand alone in this corner with my whiskey, counting down the seconds until we can leave this place. I can’t risk getting closer to Tori.
That will only make things worse.
I know she’s trying to hold everything together. For herself, the team, even me.
Doesn’t mean I know how to stand next to her right now.
And it doesn’t make what just happened in there any less painful, less humiliating.
I finally get the text from her: Let’s go.
Setting my empty glass down on a tray, I head out. We meet at the double doors, Tori’s face all tight control. I say nothing, moving past her to the car.
The ride back to the hotel’s silent. The driver doesn’t even have the radio on, making the quiet that much louder.
Tori doesn’t try to smooth over the situation and neither do I, both of us staring out our windows.
Her fingers fidget with her gold chain and my knee bounces, anger and embarrassment churning in my gut.
Just as we’re pulling up to the hotel, Tori reaches for me. Her fingers lightly squeeze my knee and I feel her touch deep in my chest. Something cracks open for a half-second, then I lock it down.
“I’m sorry about Eleanor,” she whispers.
I don’t respond, my jaw tight. There’s too many thoughts whirring around, none of them good.
The car stops and I climb out, not bothering to wait for her. I stalk through the lobby and hustle into the open elevator, jamming the button for eight.
I ride up to my floor, leaving Tori behind.
I don’t want to be with her right now. Don’t trust what I’d say.
I’m better off alone.
Back in my room, I head straight to the minibar. Yank the fridge open and grab a tiny bottle of whiskey. Pour the dark liquor into a glass and shoot it.
The liquid burns all the way down.
But at least I feel something.
I reach for the next bottle and unscrew the lid, not bothering with the glass this time.
I don’t even taste it.
I peel off my jacket and toss it on the bed, head to the bathroom. Maybe I can shower off this horrific night.
Standing beneath the spray, I replay the evening. Everything was fine until we ran into Eleanor MacDonald. That woman’s toxic, spreading venom everywhere she goes.
But Eleanor didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.
And Tori couldn’t say anything to prove her wrong.
The two of us can’t work. Not in the real world.
That’s the part that stings.
I’m still the same old guy.
The wild one.
Just like when I was a kid. Weston was the golden boy, never doing anything wrong. Callum was quiet and kept his head down.
But me?
I was the one our dad tracked like a turnover waiting to happen.
Bennett, slow down. Don’t do anything stupid.
Bennett, think before you act.
Like me fucking breathing was going to cause a hurricane.
Tonight, hearing “probation situation,” I was sixteen again with everyone watching for me to screw up.
I crank the temperature up higher, each pulse of water a sharp blast on my skin. Steam swirls around me and fills up the bathroom. I suck in a shaky inhale, trying to force air into my tight chest.
I could give two shits what Eleanor thinks of me. Or most of the people at the event, for that matter.
But Tori?
She matters.
I kill the water and towel off. Check my phone for messages.
Nothing.
“Dammit!” I throw the phone onto the bed, rage welling up from my gut. I stride back over to the minibar, down another bottle of whiskey. This time I chase it with water, at least.
I crash onto the white bedspread, fingers itching to text her.
But what the fuck would I say?
She can only take risks with me when we’re alone. When no one can see us and being with me doesn’t cost her anything.
When she can get messy and pretend it’s just heat.
But tonight, in that room full of old money and loaded expectations, she froze.
She could have reached for me, let her hand rest on my arm and owned it.
She didn’t.
Optics.
I’m not mad at her for playing the game. I know the rules. I’ve lived under them my entire career.
No.
I’m mad at myself for believing I could be more to her. Believing we could work.
The vein at my temple throbs and I curl my hands into the sheets to keep from reaching out to her.
Tell me I matter.
I can’t do it. Can’t ask for that.
Not when I already know the answer.
There’s no way out of this mess.
I’m not her project, never wanted to be.
And after tonight, I doubt I’m anything to her at all other than a gigantic liability.
Tomorrow, I’ll go out there and do what I always do — tear up the ice.
And prove to everyone I don’t need to be fucking managed.
Not by anyone.