24. Coraline
24
CORALINE
“Remind me again how a private ghost tour counts as a public date?”
My brows dip down low over my eyes as I look at the imposing figure of Grand Avenue. The moon shines in the background, bright and full in the sky behind the old building. Honestly, it should be a paid actor for the ambiance it adds to their haunted tour.
“They’ll be other people there,” he reasons, reaching out and snagging my hand.
He laces our fingers together, and I pretend like it doesn’t affect me at all.
“And you can do one of your sneaky stories on socials. You know, to let that asshole and any other delusional dumbass know you’re taken.”
I pivot on the ball of my foot to face him, planting my feet wide but leaving us connected by the hands. I narrow my eyes at him. “Why do you want to be on my socials? Aren’t you satisfied with your hundreds of thousands of followers?”
His full lips spread into a satisfied smile. “You checkin up on me, baby?”
My hand falls to hang by my side, and I bristle with embarrassment. When he parrots my words back to me with that-that-that insinuation , it makes me think that’s how I sound to him. Which couldn’t be further from the truth.
His gaze locks onto my hand for a moment, like he’s personally offended it's no longer intertwined with his. He blinks one slow sweep of his dark lashes and looks back at my face again.
“You look like the type of person who flaunts”—I vaguely flutter my fingers toward his six-pack currently hidden underneath a black tee—“all that.”
I would rather eat glass than tell him yes, I do look at his profile from time to time. I keep thinking he’s going to start posting himself on there, and then, well, I don’t know what I would do if I had to watch thousands of people fawning all over him in his comment section.
It’s unfair since this isn’t even a real relationship. And I’d like to think that I wouldn’t ever put a demand on someone like that if it were real.
But . . . I can’t help the dark streak of jealousy that ziplines through me when I think of him with other women.
Also, every time I even get the barest whisper of that suggestion, my brain helpfully reminds me of the scene I walked in on a few years ago.
It’s a Friday night at the clubhouse, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and smoke, mingling with the sound of raucous laughter and clinking glasses. The Reapers are having one of their notorious parties, which means the clubhouse is about to get full.
Jagger and I made plans to hang out tonight, but I was currently in the bathroom, looking for my confidence in the mirror. I fluff my hair a little, finger-combing it to give it some volume without losing the barrel waves.
“You can do this,” I murmur to myself. “You know he wants you. This is what you want. So just go out and get it. Get him .”
I nod, pleased with my little pep talk.
I don’t even know why I’m stressing about this so much. He’s made his feelings very clear—well, that’s not entirely true, I guess. When Jagger and I are together, we don’t talk about feelings. We don’t really do that much talking at all really.
But I’m like ninety-seven percent sure he’ll be all-in when I tell him I want more than just casual. And those are damn good odds.
My hands tremble slightly as I reapply my lipstick, the bold red color giving me a surge of confidence. We’d been dancing around each other for weeks, and I’m tired of pretending that my feelings aren’t growing into something more than just hooking up.
Plus, I don’t know if I can take the constant hum of jealousy under my skin for much longer. He’s surrounded by girls—the club bunnies—and they’re all so gorgeous and literally always here.
But whatever because after tonight, it’s going to be different.
As I smooth down my hair, the door swings open, and a trio of girls stroll in, giggling and chatting. I stiffen, pretending to be engrossed in my lipstick, but their conversation catches my attention. I don’t recognize two of them as usual Reaper bunnies, but the other one looks vaguely familiar. So they’re either new or visiting from another club. I don’t really understand the club politics.
“Can you believe Jagger picked Heather for his bed tonight?” The brunette gushes, her tone dripping with envy. “I’ve been waiting for my turn for weeks.”
The blonde girl huffs, adjusting her bandeau top in the mirror, showcasing her incredible abs. “Ugh, me too. My cousin told me he’s been messing around with some local girl, but I bet her a one-seven-five of Jack I can bag him this month.”
My heart clenches when I realize they’re talking about me, but I force myself to keep listening.
The third girl, a bleach-blonde with sharp eyes, smirks. “This month? Babe, we’re gonna bag him this weekend . Once he hears our offer, he’s not gonna be able to say no. They never do,” she says, laughing as she swipes her lip gloss over her lips.
The brunette smirks. “Who could say no to all three of us?”
The three of them laugh as they leave the bathroom, unaware of the damage they’ve done.
I nearly choke on my breath, a bitter taste flooding my mouth. They’re just talking shit, right? Wishful thinking? They don’t know him like I do.
. . . but how well do I actually know him?
My gut clenches as acid flames of doubt lick across my chest. Intrusive thoughts begin to swarm my mind, each one more damning than the last. I try to push them away, but they cling to me like parasites, gnawing away at the confidence I’d just built up.
I shake my head, scattering the negativity like dandelion fluff in the wind. These girls don’t know shit, and I’m not going to let their cheap words ruin my night.
I twist down my favorite lipstick and cap it, rubbing my lips together to spread the color evenly. I roll my shoulders back and give myself a final look in the mirror.
Determination thumps in time with my steps as I leave the bathroom. But the moment I step into the clubhouse living room, my feet refuse to move any further.
Because sitting in the back corner on one of the worn leather couches is Jagger. With a random girl perched on his lap. Her hands drape over his shoulder with possession, and that little green-eyed monster inside of me perks up with a snarl.
His hands aren’t touching her, but he isn’t pushing her away either.
It feels like I’m underwater, everything moving in slow motion. I give myself five seconds. Five seconds of watching him do nothing and silently begging him to do something. Push her off, stand up, look at me— anything .
But he doesn’t. He just sits there, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he talks to the guys around him. The girl laughs, leaning into him, and my heart shatters into a million pieces.
Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk out of the clubhouse, my chest tight.
I vow then and there to never let a man make me feel like a fool ever again.
It’s his fingertips on my neck that brings me out. The scene that superimposed itself crumbles into dust and flees my vision like it's swept away on a breeze.
“You alright?”
My lashes flutter a few times, clearing my vision but not wiping away the memory. I still feel the rough edges of disappointment and the hot flush of foolishness against the tender flesh of my heart. It’s a necessary reminder of what happened—of what I don’t ever want to feel again.
I step to the side, but he mirrors me, keeping his hand on my neck. I hate the way it grounds me, stirring something low in my belly at the possession in the gesture.
“What are you doing?” It comes out a half-growl, exasperation and frustration thick on my tongue.
He steps into me, using his hold on me to arch my neck and tilt my face toward him. “Bringing you back,” he murmurs.
“I’m back,” I snap at him, shuffling back a step.
He follows me, backing me against the cold metal handrail of the stairs. One hand flies to his wrist, the other to the handrail behind me. I thought this was it, but he doesn’t stop until my back arches over the top of the railing.
“Jagger.” It comes out breathier than I’m comfortable admitting.
He makes a low noise of protest in the back of his throat. “Jasper.”
The correction straightens my spine. “What are we doing, Jasper?” I mentally pat myself on the back for my even tone.
“I already told you, baby. Bringing you back to me.” He lowers his face, his lips brushing against the corner of my mouth. It feels like an electric current, the simple touch sending a tingle down my spine. A whisper of a promise.
My breath hitches at the contact. “I’m here.”
“Just to be sure though,” he murmurs against my lips.
My eyelashes flutter closed without my permission as he kisses the hell out of me.