Chapter 13 Neve #2
“I saw you,” Faust says quietly, his eyes studying mine, then roaming over my face, down my jacket, to my pants, stopping at my heels.
He lifts his eyes again. “In the stands.” He speaks softly, and I realize we must be one of the few people left because it’s quiet at our backs.
The scent of popcorn and beer is completely overtaken by the scent of him. It’s intoxicating. Hard to think.
When I shift my eyes past him to the glass surrounding the entrance of the arena, I see there aren’t many fans left, but there are some, and a few are taking photos right now.
Of Faust’s back, and me, standing in front of him.
“You had a silver cup.”
I dart my eyes back to him, ignoring his words. “People are watching us,” I whisper.
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah. They do that.” There’s a low irritation to his tone, and I wonder if he gets tired of it.
The spectacle. I suppose he knew what he was getting into, but then again, did he?
Or did he just find hockey to be that thing he could turn some parts of his brain off for like I could when I picked up a fantasy novel?
A surge of unexpected empathy beats through me.
“Were you drinking?” Faust presses, like it’s important.
I frown at him. “Does it matter? I’m twenty-one.”
“I’m not a cop,” he says, “and the drinking age here is nineteen, remember?” A slight smile tugs at his beautiful lips.
They’re puffy and pink and I want to touch them but I force the thought from my mind.
Errant fucking is what got me into this mess and I’m sure if Faust knew all the details about me and my tendencies, he wouldn’t want to touch me with a ten-foot pole.
The first name I ever remember being called was in middle school. Even Nolan knew better than to use names when he was gently chiding me to refrain from dessert or not eat so much of a portion it hurt.
Jemma Knowles taunted me with “Slut D” because she said my mom was a prostitute and that’s how she was able to bring up me and Nolan on her own.
It wasn’t true, either the insult or the accusation toward Mom, but it didn’t matter.
She did it in front of the entire class when the teacher went out for some break or another, and the words hurt for reasons I didn’t understand.
At that point I’d only ever kissed my neighbor in a shy game of make-believe, but everyone oohed and ahhed all the same at Jemma’s words, and boys gave me attention after that.
Not because they liked me, but because of what they thought I might do for them. What I did end up doing.
I liked the attention.
I didn’t like the way it left me hollow in the aftermath.
That’s how I learned to turn off my feelings.
“What did you drink?” Faust quietly presses, but it doesn’t sound urgent. Just casual, as if he’s making conversation. Whether he is or isn’t, his tone makes me feel slightly more relaxed. Not how Nolan’s does when he prattles on about the calories in alcohol.
I lift my chin and answer Faust. “Rum and Diet Coke.”
He makes no reaction whatsoever to my answer, aside from staring into my eyes without blinking.
“Really,” I tell him, attempting to take his dark-eyed spotlight off me. “You did… really good.”
“Really?” There’s a spark in his gaze as he asks it, like he’s mocking me.
I roll my eyes and push my hands deep into the pockets of my coat. “Shut up,” I mutter under my breath.
“Okay.” He shrugs, his broad shoulders tightening under his sweater as he does.
I frown, not wanting him to actually shut up; he doesn’t speak enough as is, unlike Sylvan who can’t seem to stop.
“Do you know he came by yesterday?” I ask as I think of the right winger. “To my apartment? Your little buddy?” He’s definitely not little, but he’s a brat. And he’s the reason I’m still here.
Faust’s jaw tightens, and he doesn’t answer. He just asks, “Can I speak now?” It’s such a serious tone, it almost makes me laugh out loud, but I hold it in, suddenly unsure if maybe people told him to shut up a lot when he was a kid or if he has an abusive parent or… Fuck, I’m spiraling.
Overthinking.
This is exactly why I enjoy drinking. It stops all of that. Like cutting out the white noise and replacing it with fun.
“Please,” I say quietly, answering Faust’s question.
I watch his throat roll above his collar as he swallows, and my heart races hard in my chest.
“He didn’t tell me what you talked about.” The captain’s answer is so soft and full of what sounds like genuine confusion, I find myself taking an involuntary step toward him. In heels, we’re closer in height, but I still have to tilt my head and look up a little to meet his dark gaze.
His pulse is beating in his throat, just above the gold and silver chains, and I want to run my fingers over them because I’m not immune to shiny things, but I don’t dare touch him.
The last time I did that, a few minutes later, we found a dead body.
I push my tongue behind my top teeth as if the action will force the memory away.
“But he did say he saw you.” He clears his throat and for the first time in long minutes, he glances away, over the top of my head.
Then back to me.
There’s a crease between his dark brows.
I shift from one foot to the other, a hot discomfort coursing through my blood, but I couldn’t say why.
Faust looks at me again, and this time, he takes a step.
Away.
The motion causes me to catch the people behind the glass, still snapping photos, and I’m grateful they can’t hear us, or see what he’s saying.
It feels as if I’m waiting for a blow, but a different one than Jackson seemed primed to lash out at me with in his truck.
I put the pieces together well enough on Faust’s recoil, and his words.
I think of Jemma and I don’t wait for the hit. “What exactly did he say we did?” My voice is colder. Sharper, too.
“That’s not my business.”
“But if he said it to you, it sure as fuck is.” I clench my fingers into fists inside my pockets. If Sylvan Connor said what I think he said, I might break his fucking leg and his team is going to need more offensive players.
Faust inhales, his nostrils flaring, then he says, on the exhale, “Who you hook up with doesn’t concern me—”
“What?” My voice is a snarl as Slut D echoes in my head.
Why the hell would he say that? What are we, in middle school?
And why would he tell Faust even if it were true?
I realize they’re on the same team but they didn’t exactly seem like besties Wednesday night.
Then again, it’s not like we had a good hangout session to clarify and I suppose assuming they weren’t close was my mistake.
But coming here after being summoned to by an arrogant, lying asshole was an even bigger one.
“And you believed him?” I spit out, unable to turn around and walk away.
This is why I drink. I repeat it to myself again, wishing I’d had a third drink like I’d planned to, but I was trying to be responsible which held me back.
Faust stares blankly at me.
Fuck him and fuck his little fan club.
Fuck the Dragons, too.
I shake my head, open my mouth to snarl something else out, then think better of it. There’s no point. Why I entertained this bullshit is beyond me. Sylvan is a psychopath and Faust is gullible and indifferent.
We ended up caught in the same drama on the same night but Jackson is gone.
Trying to stick together to find out more on the investigation or whatever other bullshit Sylvan Connor wanted is a waste of my fucking time.
And whatever Faust wanted to give me, he’s made no indication of doing so, and Neve Devine doesn’t fucking beg.
“I’m done here.” I shoot a glare to Faust and just barely resist the urge to stick up my middle finger over his shoulder and give his outdoor fan club something else to talk about.
I spin around, prepared to walk home, but I come up short when I realize someone is right fucking behind me.
I suck in a breath, the scent of mint and soft leather and smoke filling my nose as I tip my head up past a wall of a red overcoat and cream sweater all the way to blue-gray, frostbitten eyes.
Eyes with tiny lines at the corner.
Smirking.
And before I can think about the fact people are watching, I’m outnumbered, and these are two soon-to-be-pro hockey players I’m once again standing between, I throw out my hands and shove Sylvan Connor backward.
His reaction is faster than I anticipated.
His black gloved hands shoot out and wrap around my wrists faster than I can snatch back my limbs. He grips me so tightly, it’s like my bones shift beneath his hold, and my lips part, but I refuse to let out a whimper.
Still, I can’t stop from sucking in a breath as I try to tug my hands from his grip.
But he doesn’t let go, and the smirk is gone from his eyes.
His pink lips are pressed together and his cheeks look hollow, as if he’s sucking them in from anger or irritation.
Or maybe he’s just blessed with those lines.
“Fuck you,” I snarl, my voice low. I wonder if he can feel my pulse slamming in my wrists beneath his gloves.
“But didn’t we?” he asks, tilting his head.
This motherfucker. I try to jerk away from him again, but he only yanks me closer, so my hands are involuntarily pressed to his hard chest and the soft cashmere feel of his sweater.
He leans in closer, the fresh scent of him overwhelming. “Play nice, Neve,” he says against my ear. “The people are watching.”
“They’re not my people, and if you don’t let go of me, they won’t be yours, either.” I snap my head back as I try in vain to pull away from his tight grip. “I’m not afraid to make a scene,” I hiss. “Don’t test me. You’re disgusting. I never touched you. You stalked me to my—”
In a heartbeat, he has both of my wrists in one of his hands, and his other is pressed over my mouth.
I turn my head away and plant my heels, attempting to use my weight to get myself free. But an arm comes around my throat, another shoots out to shove Sylvan off, and shocking the hell out of me, the brat releases me.
As I’m pulled into a hard body, one arm now wrapped around my waist, the other still over my throat—firm but not choking me—I realize it’s Faust Darling who has me in his grip.
From this angle, I know the Dragon fan club can’t take photos, and even though I don’t give a fuck about their reputation, I’m grateful if only for what’s left of mine.
Sylvan lifts both his gloved hands up, as if in surrender, but he takes several steps back, too.
Faust is calm at my back, his grip sure, and he says… nothing.
“Sorry, Captain, I just—”
“You’re not sorry,” I snarl, straining lightly against Faust’s grip, my hands curled into fists like I might swing at his stupid, immature teammate. “You’re a fucking brat.”
Sylvan runs his hand over his mouth and shakes his head, like he’s trying to get rid of his smirk. “Maybe,” he concedes. He lifts his eyes to Faust. “But I respect people who deserve it.”
I think I might explode. I jerk against Faust’s hold on me, but he won’t let me go, so I do the only thing I can think of.
I spit.
Up into Sylvan’s face.
It lands on his chin, a few flecks along his lips, and my anger feels satisfied.
Especially at the way Sylvan freezes.
Staring at me.
Then bringing his glove to his mouth, lower, wiping my spit off.
He examines it on the black leather protecting his skin, and I see his teeth clench, his mouth closed.
He’s mad? Good. That makes two of us.
But when his eyes land on mine again, he slowly slides his finger into his mouth and without looking away from me, sucks my spit off him.
Faust’s entire body feels rigid at my back, matching my own.
When Sylvan pulls his finger out with a pop, he tilts his head. “If you didn’t have such good back-up, I’d have put it in your mouth.”
“Connor,” Faust says softly, his body still coiled tight behind me, his grip never loosening, his large hand splayed over half my torso. “Do you like being able to skate?”
My stomach drops with the coldness in Faust’s tone.
My eyes widen and I want to turn and look at him, but I don’t dare move.
Where Sylvan seems charming and chaotic, Faust could be an actual serial killer. Sylvan is just playing at one.
Don’t think of Jackson.
Do. Not. Think of Jackson.
I don’t, just barely, and Sylvan’s bravado seems to wilt before my eyes. He doesn’t do anything different, really, it’s just… there’s no smirk, his shoulders seem lower, and he glances at the ground.
But is it an act? To get what he wants?
His eyes find mine once more, and he looks like he wants to say something, but another glance at Faust, and he falls silent.