Chapter 4
WAR
A sh insists on driving herself to the event, and I’m forced to let her, which pisses me off.
From the beginning, her being on campus with us has been a problem.
She’s a distraction we can’t contain. The girl roams around at all hours, hanging out in bars, crashing parties, drawing dangerous attention to herself.
J’s been in at least one bar brawl while keeping an eye out for her.
Granthorpe University is a prestigious school, but it’s also home to entitled assholes who formed a club that gave rise to a serial killer.
Ashling Patrick makes moves as though she’s never heard of Casanova and couldn’t care less that the dirt hasn’t even settled on the graves of coeds who were more cautious than she is.
And yet, Crue leadership, which is protective of her in other ways, does nothing to clip her wings. They could’ve made me the bad guy by tasking me with doing it, but even before the incident in Belfast tipped them off to the tensions between us, C declined to give me power over her.
So instead, she crash-landed right into a rave we were running as cover for a crucial break-in.
Mission-critical activities could’ve been disrupted by the fact that I had to take her away from an asshole who decided to manhandle her after she confronted him.
Fucking insane. She’s about five-seven, and I doubt she clears a hundred and ten pounds without a backpack full of books.
And yet, she’s hard-charging like she’s in an underground fight to the death.
I keep the SUV right on her ass as the red Camaro slides around snow-covered corners. Driving as though the city’s on fire is another things she excels at.
In my periphery, I spot Sawyer’s hand come forward from the backseat to grip J’s shoulder. “Maybe just let her get there first.”
“Yeah, man.” J’s tone is grim. “In case you haven’t spotted it, the tighter you keep, the faster she goes. A race is what she wants.”
I ignore them both and don’t even flinch when we fishtail on a slice of ice.
I’m in four-wheel drive, which Ashling’s ancient fucking hotrod doesn’t even have.
Still, she’s steady; I’ll give her that.
It’s as though she’s driving a Christmas sled pulled by magic reindeer.
I bite back my frustration and charge on.
If I roll the truck, I roll it. That’s the only way she’s gonna pull out of my sight.
We reach the parking lot, and the momentum of the truck with all of us in it is more than the brakes can stop on short notice. Overshooting a parking spot with a slide, we bang against a parking block.
“Jesus,” Sawyer says on a gasp.
The truck jerks to a stop, jarring us hard enough for J to curse and shake his head.
“I’m taking a cab home,” Sawyer says.
J unbuckles his seatbelt. “Yeah, we will.”
Rolling my eyes, I fling my door open and drop down, my boots smashing the snow into the asphalt .
Ash stands next to her car, cheeks flushed, and looks me over. “Didn’t quite stick the landing on that one.”
It’s as though she wants me to prove I could kill her where she stands in less than five seconds.
Saying nothing, my legs eat up the distance to her.
Her smirk evaporates when she hears the telltale scrape of my key against her passenger door.
My peeling a strip of paint off her Camaro is interrupted when she launches herself at me, and I shift to catch her.
If she were a man, I would’ve sent him sprawling halfway across the lot, but seeing the back of her head crack open on icy concrete doesn’t appeal to me.
Unless I truly lose control, I won’t kill her in a way that leaves her hair matted with blood.
A part of me likes her looks too much for that.
I set her down as her fist bangs into my chest.
“Cut it out, Tinker Bell. If you put some more force behind your blows, one of your knuckles might smudge my body paint.”
Her name, Ashling, is traditional Irish, though her parents spelled it phonetically rather than the right way. To me, Ashling sounds like a fairy’s name, which doesn’t seem far off to look at her.
Eyes narrowing, she goes still. “So tough. And yet…” With a slap of her hand, she taps the exact spot where the bullet wound has finally healed. “Even you could?—”
“Jayzus, enough. ” J’s Irish accent communicates that he’s lost all patience with this. “I’m ready to skip this night entirely.”
What I’m tempted to say is, “Then walk the fuck away, and leave her to me.” But I know he won’t, so I remain silent.
Still wanting to hear the rest of what Ash was about to say, I try to back her into the side of her car to trap her. I’m hoping she’ll come at me again, giving me an excuse to hold her prisoner with my hands. But she doesn’t.
Whirling on her heel, the girl strokes the side of her car. “Sorry, baby. I’ll fix it.” With a heavy sigh, she squeezes past me and slides an arm through J’s. “Sorry to you, too. But you know that car is my life. And so does your asshole friend. ”
“Sawyer,” J says, beckoning her.
His girl steps forward, and he laces their fingers together, so he’s effectively escorting both girls. That’s fine with me.
I tap the fob to lock the SUV, but my gaze is fixed on the way Ashling’s ass looks encased in silver spandex. It’s rounder than it was at the start of the school year. Apparently, her little workouts aren’t complete bullshit.
At the door of the frat house, we flash our phone screens so they can verify our pre-paid tickets. Once confirmed, security waves us through.
The hall stretches before us, split into a transitioning landscape where one wall is supposed to be heaven.
Airbrushed cotton-candy puffs of clouds decorate a backdrop of faded blue sky that bleeds to sunset pink where the paint ran thin.
Halfway across, colors morph to tarnished gold before darkening again to charcoal and crimson with olive green flames licking up toward a blackened ceiling.
Plastic pitchforks and tinsel halos hang from fishing line at uneven heights, swaying whenever the bass drops. The air is thick with body heat, fake smoke, and the sweet and pungent musk of sweat and weed.
At home at any kind of party, Ash Patrick vibrates with excitement as she hurries to the line at the bar. J follows, still holding tight to his girl’s hand so she’s forced to tag along. It’s all good, but I don’t join them because I’m not one for standing in line.
Conversations are few and far between because the shit music blasting from the speakers drowns it out. Are we really gonna be tortured all night with pop-rock that feels like it’s pouring out of a candy dispenser? Christ, I may have to have a word with the DJ.
Planting myself on the edge of the room with my back to the wall, so no one can make a stealthy approach, I slip noise-cancelling ear buds in. After a while, we get some classic rock at least. Not as rough as what I prefer but definitely better .
Scanning the area, I take everything in. My attention returns to the smart-mouthed silver demon girl more often than it should. My focus on her has become a living thing. Undeniable. Irresistible. Relentless.
Though I’ll never admit it, Ashling is the reason I cut ties with a girl who was better suited to my needs.
The other blonde, a dancer, was easily molded into a sexual submissive.
One I could fuck rough, reward, and dismiss.
I’d trained Greta to expect nothing beyond physical release from me.
No emotions. No calls or texts, except when I was summoning her to my bed.
She accepted the parameters and limitations.
Given the other things I have going on, it was the perfect situation for me.
So, why did I formally end things with Greta and start tracking Ashling Patrick’s movements? Hawking over her like she’s the only prey that matters?
At first, I told myself it was because I’m C Crue, and she’s blood to key members. Can’t have her getting date-raped on my watch. But that’s not it. By refusing to let me restrict where she goes, C freed me of responsibility.
And yet…
Standing with arms folded across my chest, I frown at the increasing crowd.
People flow toward Ash and J, their golden good looks like a beacon.
Ashling laughs easily with people as she collects her drink.
The bartender hits on her, leaning forward and blocking her from paying him.
I don’t have to hear the words to know he’s offering her as many free drinks as she wants.
Beauty that profound is a form of currency.
From the west end of the hall, a pack of males clocks her.
Led by the stocky powerlifter, Crosby Bergmann, whose body looks like it’s made of bowling balls, they intercept Ash.
Bergmann is the only athlete. The rest are his brothers from Beta Sigma Chi, a fraternity that earned a sanction from the university over its gamification of illicit porn of unconscious girls. Real winners, these assholes .
Ashling, all sunshine and light, either hasn’t heard about the scandal or assumes her friend Bergmann wasn’t involved.
Stalking forward with a measured pace that gives me time to study the interaction, I use my bulk to force my path to clear.
J and Sawyer catch up with Ashling, and he hands off the two drinks he’s carrying to Sawyer, so she’s juggling three.
He wants his hands free. Wise. Bergmann oozes charm whenever he has Ash’s attention, but his jealousy is quick to flair when he doesn’t.
He even picked a fight with J one night before he realized they’re related.
I arrive on the scene, and Sawyer offers me a drink, vodka with a pointless slice of lime floating above ice I also don’t need. I flip the lime onto a tabletop and drain the plastic cup, so I can set it down. Hands once again free, I keep to the back edge of the group.