Chapter 18 Reyna
REYNA
Maddox speeds up in front of me to hold the door open and grips my satchel when I try to take it off him. He follows the whole gentlemanly act with a glare when I don’t give him a chance to help me into the cab.
Stuck in rush hour, our conversation drifts from art and film to stories about my mom—his full of the wacky stuff she’d say at shows, mine of everything else.
“You haven’t mentioned your father,” Maddox observes.
“There’s not much to say.”
He raises an inquisitive brow.
Leaning my head back, I gaze out the front window.
“I used to get a single day out of the year to see him—and he’d spend half of that day playing catch-up with Mom.
He usually didn’t even stay the night. There was the odd occasion that he stayed, like, two or three days, but I could count on one hand how many times that happened.
I mean, he called randomly a couple of times, but that guy was not a talker. ”
That catches his attention. “Used to?”
I nod once. “Car accident. The engine exploded.”
“Why only once a year?”
Sighing, I turn to look at him. “His job was more important to him than his family.”
I laugh when his lips twist like he’s personally victimized by this revelation. “Why? What the bloody hell did he do that he only had one day off every three hundred sixty-four days?”
“CIA.”
His eyes bulge a fraction. “Really?”
“Fuck no.” I snort as the cab driver yells at a pedestrian.
“As a kid, it was a toss-up between that, assassin, Batman, or one of the FBI’s most wanted.
Five-year-old me thought the CIA was the safest bet.
Every time I’d ask, he’d give me some bullshit answer like ‘businessman’ or ‘sales.’ Then I got in trouble with both my parents during ‘bring your dad to school’ day when I stood up and said that my dad couldn’t come because he was running away from the police—but it’s okay because he came and saw me once a year.
I finished the speech by making everyone promise they wouldn’t tell the cops.
Surprise, surprise, the school did. That was my first experience with betrayal. ”
“Christ.”
“He sent me money, though. Dad of the year for that.”
Maddox scoffs. “That makes up for everything.”
“Oh, for sure. It literally made all the mental illness go away since it just so happened to be the exact amount required to pay for a therapist.”
The smile wipes off his face as his eyes drop to my thighs. The attention usually makes me uncomfortable because it’s like waiting for a judgment bomb to go off, but instead, he looks pissed.
“Say the word, and I’ll kill him again for you.”
I choke on a laugh. “I’m pretty sure you’re not meant to say that to people who lose a parent.”
He lifts a shoulder and drops his hand on the seat, dangerously close to my thighs. “The offer still stands.”
And they say chivalry is dead.
“What about your dad? Any trauma there, or is it mainly mommy issues?” It’s a rude assumption, but one I’d bet good money on. No one makes the type of art he does and holds such a hateful outlook on the world without having family issues.
He levels a dirty look my way.
“Both, then,” I conclude, smirking. His deadpan stare is confirmation enough. “Let me guess, one or both of your parents aren’t fans of your art. They think you should have been a lawyer, doctor, an accountant, or something that involves a soul-crushing nine-to-nine corporate job. How close am I?”
He just looks at me, and I grin as I give him an obvious once-over of his overly refined clothes. No one dresses like that without money, and no teenager could have pulled off the art he had made unless his parents had deep wallets.
“I think your mom’s on the PTA and is Hermès’s favorite client, while your dad’s a businessman of some kind who—”
“He’s the president of Wilson Shaw.”
I stare blankly at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but his irritation slowly morphs to cold amusement.
“The accounting company,” Maddox explains.
“Wow. That’s… cool.”
“You have no idea who they are, do you?”
“Not at all.”
“Good.”
Uh. “Should I…?”
“It’s a Fortune 500 company.”
Oh. “That explains why you’re a pompous asshole.”
Maddox bursts out laughing. The sound bubbles out of his chest and rumbles through the car, so jarring that a smile splits across my face—because the only time I’ve ever heard him laugh is with me.
He never does more than a practiced smile in all the interviews I’ve seen of him.
In class, he only ever cocks an amused brow when someone cracks a joke.
“Miss Sinaga, I suggest you develop a filter.”
“This is me with a filter.”
“In that case, you should lose it. Say whatever crosses your mind.”
“One wrong move and you could give me an F. Hard pass, Mr. Shaw. I’ll keep my more colorful insults to myself for now.”
His lips flatten, and he lowers his voice just enough for me to hear him over the radio and the cacophony of honking and yelling.
“I told you that you’re aware of where the door is.
I’ll say it once more, then I have no intention of repeating it.
I won’t stop you from walking out now. Should you choose to stay, once we cross that line, there is no going back.
And don’t for a second think that any of this concerns your grades or your continued attendance in my class. ”
My eyes widen. All I can manage is a single nod.
When the cab eventually reaches the university, Maddox is out of the car and opening my door before it can come to a complete stop.
This time, when I reach for my satchel, he doesn’t keep it hostage, remaining a safe, healthy distance from me at all times, three steps ahead, and acting like he barely knows who I am.
When you aren’t enough, you’re forgettable, and the distance is making me feel forgettable.
It hurts when I know it shouldn’t. I have no right to feel this way when our entire relationship only exists behind closed doors. The seconds of contact we shared are stolen moments I should have savored because this thing between us was never meant to last.
The harsh late-afternoon light casts the campus in a foreboding glow. Students mill about, some probably going to or from their last class of the day, or starting their travel back home. A few greet Maddox as we pass.
The buildings around us seem grander, the spires of the library behemoths, and us, two little dots on a map.
Yet it feels like we’re trapped in glass, and everyone can see us, but we can’t see them.
Their eyes seem to know too much, like they suspect exactly what we’ve done, and any minute now someone will chastise us.
It feels like I’m sinning even though technically, I’m only going to his office to grab my camera.
Once we’re in the building and on his floor, the air between us turns charged. It’s silent enough that I could hear a pin drop. My breathing grows heavier the closer we get to his office, and the anticipation has my pulse pounding an erratic beat.
I’m getting my bag. Nothing more, I remind myself as he unlocks his room, turns off the alarm, and lets me in first.
I’m not sure why I’m surprised that his studio looks the same as when we left. Somehow, I thought our time together would change everything, and the world as I knew it would morph alongside the rapidly multiplying butterflies in my stomach.
The door snicks shut behind him. The sound sends a bolt of energy down my spine. It vibrates through the room and clings to the fabric of my clothes. I internally wince when the wooden floor creaks under my boots.
Maddox doesn’t move far from the entrance, silently watching me as I grab my camera bag from his desk. The severity of his stare makes me feel like cornered prey, except I have neither the fight nor flight instincts to decide how I want this night to end.
Shouldering my bag, I move back toward the exit, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. He takes his glasses off and sets them on a nearby bench. I’m trapped in his orbit. It’s odd being unsure whether he’s going to say something that pisses me off or turn me on.
“Well.” I clear my throat and pause in front of him. “Thank you for this afternoon.”
He hums, shifting closer, forcing me to shuffle back until I’m against the door and his front is touching mine. His eyes darken, and I’m assaulted with memories of the couch. He looks as tortured as he was the afternoon I came undone because of him.
A pulse starts between my legs. Every inch of me is acutely aware of where he is; the hand on the wall above my head, his fingers dipping beneath my coat to inch up the curve of my body, his excruciatingly slow ascent from the jut of my hip to the curve of my waist.
Heat blossoms through the fabric and across my skin beneath his touch, and the scent of bergamot and paint makes me shiver.
He can’t be touching me, I chant. But the words don’t come out. It feels too good. Right.
“You have no idea how much I needed it.” I keep speaking despite being given no prompt to continue.
Poison-ivy eyes drop to my lips, watching my mouth curve around each word. Still, he says nothing, letting me squirm as his hand descends back down my body and skates over my ass in the gentlest tease.
The motion is so small, but I’m seeing double from it. I have to ball my hands into fists to stop myself from touching him as freely as I’ve been dreaming of.
His head dips down, nose near mine, lips a breath away from sealing this with something deadly. Still not touching.
“I’ve been wanting to see more of the city but haven’t wanted to do it alone.
I also didn’t know that place existed, so I’m glad I can cross it off my bucket list anyway.
I had a lot of fun,” I quietly ramble, hoping that the torture of his forbidden touch will end.
I’m not sure whether I want him to close the distance or back away.
The muscles in his thick thigh are firm between mine, and it would be so easy for me to roll my hips against him to get the friction I so desperately need.