Chapter 7 Ray
Ray
Ihave no idea what I'm doing here.
Everyone in this room went to a better school than me.
I can tell by the way they hold their drinks — loose, practiced, like they've been attending black-tie events since they were old enough to tie their own shoes.
The ballroom is all dark wood and candlelight, with a string quartet playing in the corner and waiters circulating with trays of food I can't identify.
I grab what looks like a cracker with stuff on it and eat it in one bite.
It's either amazing or disgusting, I honestly can't tell.
I feel like I'm playing dress up. I keep tugging at the bow tie and resisting the urge to shove my fists in my pockets. Devon would laugh his ass off if he could see me right now. Alex would probably give me that quiet look of judgment he does, which would somehow make it worse.
And then there's Miles.
Miles at the gala is a different species from Miles in the office.
In the office he's sharp and cold and contained.
Here, he's all of those things turned up to a whole other level.
He moves through the room like he owns it, shaking hands, making conversation, his smile precise and his posture perfect.
He's got a glass he's barely sipping and he never looks uncomfortable, not once, not even when a senior partner twice his age talks to him like he's a promising intern instead of a peer.
I watch him from the edge of the room, nursing a beer I grabbed from the bar because I'm not drinking whatever's on those trays.
He's talking to a cluster of older attorneys, and one of them cracks a joke, and Miles laughs.
It's not his real laugh, but it's enough like the real thing to fool everyone who doesn't know the difference.
I know the difference. I don't know when I learned it, but I do.
He's beautiful. I know that's not a helpful thing to notice at a work event, but it's true.
The tux fits him like a glove, and his hair is perfect.
He looks untouchable. He looks like every alpha in this room would ruin their career for a chance with him, and they don't even know the half of it.
They don't know what he sounds like when he comes. I do.
I take a long sip of my beer and try to stop thinking about that.
A woman in a red dress introduces herself to me as a paralegal from another firm, and I talk to her for a while because she's nice and I'm grateful for someone who isn't terrifying.
She asks what I do and I tell her I'm a legal assistant and she doesn't look at me like that's a lesser thing, which I appreciate.
We talk about the resort and the mountains and she tells me about a hiking trail that's apparently incredible, and I nod and smile and the whole time I'm tracking Miles over her shoulder.
I can't help it. He's magnetic in this room.
Every time he moves to a new group, every time he tilts his head to listen to someone, I follow.
It's not even conscious anymore. My eyes just find him, the way they've been finding him for months across the office, except tonight he's in a tux and I've had my fist around his cock and the combination is doing things to my brain that I'm not equipped to handle.
A waiter passes and I swap my empty beer for a full one.
The paralegal excuses herself to find her colleagues, and I'm alone again, leaning against a pillar like the world's most overdressed wallflower.
I could mingle. I should mingle. Miles told me not to talk to senior partners unless spoken to, but there are plenty of non-terrifying people here.
Associates, other assistants, people my age who also look slightly lost in their formal wear.
I don't mingle. I watch Miles.
He's at the bar now, and there's an alpha next to him.
Tall, silver-temples, in an expensive suit that makes mine look like the rental that it is.
He's leaning in close to Miles, one elbow on the bar.
From across the room, it looks like a normal conversation between colleagues.
But I've been studying Miles Covington's body language for months, and the angle is wrong.
Miles is turned away. Not dramatically — just slightly, his shoulder shifted, his weight on the far foot.
It's the kind of stance that says I'm looking for an exit without making a scene.
The alpha doesn't notice, or doesn't care.
He leans in closer and murmurs near Miles's ear, and Miles's smile gets tighter, and his fingers on the bar curl into a fist and then uncurl.
I don't remember putting my drink down.
I'm moving before I've decided to, and I don't really have a plan. I just know that some alpha is standing too close to Miles and Miles doesn't want him there, and everything else — the insecurity, the rented tux, the feeling of not belonging — drops away like it was never there.
I get to the bar and I can hear the tail end of what the guy is saying.
"—should get a drink after the panels tomorrow.
Just the two of us. I know a great spot in town.
" His voice is smooth and confident, the voice of a man who's used to getting what he wants.
He's got his palm on Miles's lower back now, casual, possessive, and Miles is rigid under the touch.
"That's a generous offer," Miles says, his voice perfectly polite and perfectly cold. "But my schedule is quite full."
"I'm sure we can find a gap." The alpha smiles. He still hasn't moved.
"Hey, boss." I step up next to Miles, close enough that my shoulder brushes his.
I pass him the glass of water I grabbed from one of the waiters on my way over, because I noticed he finished his drink and hasn't gotten another one, because I notice everything about him and I can't stop.
"Sorry to interrupt. Richard Aldridge was asking about the Morrison presentation. He wants to go over the AV specs."
It's a lie. Richard is on the other side of the room talking to a judge. But Miles takes the water and the escape route in the same smooth motion, turning to me with an expression that's pure professional gratitude and nothing else.
"Of course. If you'll excuse me," he says to the alpha, and we're moving away from the bar before the guy can respond.
We walk through the crowd side by side, not touching, and Miles doesn't say anything until we're in a quieter corner near the service hallway.
He stops and takes a sip of the water and I watch his grip on the glass.
Steady. His face is steady. Everything about him is steady, and I know it's all a lie because I can see the tension in his jaw and the way he's holding his shoulders.
"Thank you," he says. It's quiet and clipped and it costs him to say it.
"Who was that?"
"No one. A partner from another firm."
"He was touching your back."
"I'm aware."
"Did you want him to?"
Miles looks at me, and for a second the mask slips. Just a flash — tired and angry and grateful underneath. "No," he says. "I didn't."
"Okay." I want to go back over there and break the guy's wrist. I want to say nobody gets to touch you like that. But those are insane, possessive thoughts — exactly the kind of alpha bullshit I've never felt before in my life. "You want to get out of here for a minute? Get some air?"
He pauses for a long time.
"Yes."
We walk down the service hallway, away from the music and the noise. It's quieter back here. The lighting is dimmer. I can hear the muffled thump of the string quartet through the walls, and our footsteps on the carpet, and Miles breathing.
He stops walking. We're in the hallway between the bathrooms, alone, and he's leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and his head tipped back, and he looks exhausted.
Not physically — deeper than that. Exhausted from performing.
Exhausted from being the version of himself that everyone in that room needs him to be.
"You okay?" I ask.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"Garcia, I said I'm—"
"You had some asshole pawing at your back and you couldn't do anything about it because you're at a work event and you have to smile and take it, and now you're standing in a hallway looking like you want to put your fist through the wall. That's not fine."
His eyes open. He looks at me, and it's the same expression from the plane — angry and scared and hungry — except now it's worse because I just did the one thing nobody else in that ballroom would have noticed he needed.
"Why do you care?" he asks, and his voice cracks on the last word.
"You know why."
"Don't."
"Miles—"
"Don't call me that."
"You know why I care."
He pushes off the wall, and I think he's going to walk away. I think he's going to go back to the gala and put the mask back on and pretend this hallway never happened. Instead he grabs the front of my shirt with both fists and pulls me toward him and kisses me.
It's not gentle. It's not the careful, dark, silent thing from the plane.
It's angry and desperate and his teeth catch my bottom lip and he's kissing me like he's trying to shut both of us up at once.
I make a sound against his mouth and then I've got him by the waist and I'm pushing him backward, through the bathroom door, into the single-stall room, kicking the door shut behind us and fumbling for the lock.
The bathroom is small and clean and lit by a single sconce. Miles is against the wall, breathing hard, his lips red from the kiss, his perfect hair finally out of place. He looks wrecked and furious and the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"This is stupid," he says.
"Yeah," I agree, and kiss him again.