Chapter 3 #2
She glared at me, but she sat. She perched on the edge of the cushion, leaving a distinct six inches of space between us.
"You don't serve drinks," I said, leaning back and draping my arm along the back of the sofa, effectively caging her without touching her. "You sit here. You look pretty. And you talk to me."
"About what?"
"About why you’re trembling."
She stiffened. "I’m not trembling. It’s the bass. It’s vibrating the floor."
"You’re trembling because you’re terrified," I murmured, leaning closer so only she could hear. "You’ve spent three years trying to be invisible, and now you’re sitting in the spotlight.
Everyone is looking at you, Angela. They’re wondering who you are.
They’re wondering why the Captain brought the 'thief’s daughter' into the inner sanctum. "
She flinched. "You’re an ass."
"I’m honest," I said. "Drink?"
"Water," she said instantly. "I don't trust the punch."
Smart girl.
I signaled the pledge, who scrambled to fetch a bottle of water. When he brought it, I cracked the seal myself before handing it to her. A small gesture of protection. I saw her notice it.
"So," she said, taking a sip. "Is this the job? Being your ornament?"
"For tonight," I said. "We have to establish the narrative."
"Which is?"
"That we are together," I said. "If people think we’re dating, no one questions why I paid your tuition. No one questions why you’re living in the penthouse. It protects your reputation."
She let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "My reputation? Elijah, you destroyed my reputation yesterday. And dating you? People will just think I’m a gold digger."
"Let them think what they want," I said, my eyes dropping to her lips. "As long as they know you’re off-limits."
The air between us grew thick. The music seemed to fade into the background. We were playing a game of chicken, staring each other down, testing the boundaries of this new, warped reality.
"Hey! Moretti!"
The spell broke.
We both looked up. Standing at the edge of the VIP rope was a guy wearing a backward baseball cap and a grin that was too wide. Kyle Jenkins. A third-line defenseman. He was drunk, swaying slightly.
"I didn't know you partied!" Kyle shouted, slurring his words. He pushed past the lineman, who was distracted by a girl. "Damn, you clean up nice. That bodysuit is tight."
I felt my spine lock.
Angela stiffened. "Go away, Kyle."
"Aw, come on," Kyle said, stepping closer. He ignored me entirely. "Don't be like that. I always thought you were hot, you know? Even with the whole... dad thing. Come dance with me. Let’s see if those ballerina legs can do something useful."
He reached out to grab her hand.
The world slowed down.
It was Layer 1: Sensory Environment. I saw the sweat beading on Kyle’s upper lip. I smelled the sour stench of tequila on his breath. I heard the specific, disgusting sound of his laugh.
It was Layer 2: The Ghost. I remembered my mother, surrounded by men who didn't respect her, men who used her. The rage that had been simmering in my gut all day boiled over.
It was Layer 3: The Micro-Tension. I didn't yell. I didn't stand up dramatically.
I moved with the speed of a striking cobra.
Before Kyle’s fingers could graze Angela’s skin, my hand shot out and clamped around his wrist. I squeezed. Hard. I felt the radius and ulna grind together.
Kyle yelped, his eyes snapping to mine.
"Ow! Fuck! Vance, let go!"
"You didn't ask permission," I said. My voice was calm, conversational, which made it terrifying.
"What?" Kyle stammered, trying to pull away. I held him fast.
"To speak to her," I clarified. "To look at her. To breathe the same air as her."
The music pumped on, oblivious to the violence happening on the couch. Angela was staring at me, her eyes wide, her chest heaving. She looked shocked, but not scared. She looked... fascinated.
"She’s with me, Kyle," I said, applying another pound of pressure. "And she doesn't dance. Not with you. Not with anyone."
"Okay! Okay, Jesus, I get it!" Kyle whined.
I released him. He stumbled back, cradling his wrist, looking at me like I was a psychopath. Maybe I was.
"Walk away," I commanded.
He scrambled into the crowd, disappearing into the mass of bodies.
I turned back to Angela. My heart was hammering a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. The mask was slipping. The "Ice Man" was melting, revealing something darker underneath.
"You didn't have to break his arm," Angela whispered.
"I didn't break it," I said, picking up my whiskey. "I just reminded him of the hierarchy."
"You’re possessive," she said. It wasn't an insult. It was an observation.
"I’m protective of my investments," I lied.
"Is that all I am?" She challenged me, leaning forward. Her knee brushed against mine. The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin. "An investment?"
"Careful, Angela," I warned, my voice dropping to a gravelly rumble. "Do not push me tonight. I am not in a civilized mood."
"I don't think you’re ever civilized," she countered. Her eyes dropped to my mouth.
The tension was unbearable. It was a physical weight, pressing down on us. I wanted to drag her out of here. I wanted to take her back to the penthouse and peel those tight jeans off her body. I wanted to bite the smart-ass remarks right off her tongue.
"Come with me," I said abruptly.
I stood up and grabbed her hand. I didn't wait for an answer. I pulled her off the couch, past the bouncers, and toward the back of the house.
"Where are we going?" she asked, breathless, stumbling slightly to keep up with my long strides.
"Somewhere quiet."
I navigated us through the kitchen, which was full of people doing keg stands, and kicked open a door that led to the back pantry. It was a narrow, dusty space lined with shelves of solo cups and cleaning supplies.
I pulled her inside and kicked the door shut behind us. The noise of the party instantly muffled, becoming a distant thrum.
I backed her up until she hit the shelving unit.
"Elijah?" Her voice shook.
I planted my hands on the shelf on either side of her head, boxing her in. I loomed over her, blocking out the light, blocking out the world.
"Why didn't you stop him?" I demanded.
"What?" She looked up at me, confused. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly.
"Kyle," I said. "You let him get close. You let him reach for you. At the gala, you broke a man’s balls for touching you. Tonight, you froze. Why?"
"Because... because I’m confused!" she cried out. "Because I don't know the rules, Elijah! Am I your employee? Am I your fake girlfriend? Am I just a prop? I didn't want to cause a scene and embarrass you and lose the money!"
Her words hit me like a splash of cold water.
She had hesitated because of me. Because of the contract. I had taken her fire. I had bought her silence, and in doing so, I had stripped her of her defense mechanisms.
"I don't want you to be passive," I said, my voice rough. "I bought your obedience in the penthouse. Out there? In the world? You fight, Angela. You rip their throats out."
"That’s a mixed message," she whispered.
She was so close. Her lips were parted, pink and inviting. Her scent was overwhelming in the small space.
"I’m a complicated man," I murmured.
I leaned down. I couldn't stop myself. I needed to taste the air she was breathing. My nose brushed against hers. I saw her eyelids flutter shut. She wanted this. The realization was a drug.
"Tell me to stop," I whispered against her mouth. "Use your safe word. Tell me to back off."
"I don't... I don't have a safe word yet," she breathed.
"Pick one," I growled. "Fast."
She didn't speak. She tilted her head back, exposing the column of her throat. It was an offering. A submission.
My hand moved from the shelf to her waist. I gripped her, my thumb digging into her hip bone through the denim. I pulled her flush against me. I felt the softness of her breasts against my chest, the heat of her core pressing into my thigh.
I was going to kiss her. I was going to ruin everything. I was going to break Rule #4 of the contract (No sexual contact until Phase 2) on the second day.
Buzz.
My phone vibrated violently in my pocket.
Then again. Buzz. Buzz.
The reality of the world crashed back in.
I froze. Angela’s eyes snapped open. She looked dazed, her pupils blown so wide her eyes looked black.
I pulled back, inches at a time. It took every ounce of discipline I possessed—and I possessed a lot.
"Phone," I gritted out.
I reached into my pocket and pulled it out.
Coach Miller calling...
"Fuck," I swore. It was 11:00 PM. If the Coach was calling, someone was in jail, or someone was dead.
"Is it... is it bad?" Angela asked, her voice trembling. She brought a hand up to touch her lips, as if checking they were still there.
"It’s Coach," I said, stepping back, putting cold distance between us. The loss of her heat was physically painful. "I have to take this."
I looked at her one last time. She looked thoroughly ravished, and I hadn't even kissed her. Her hair was messy, her lips were swollen, and she was looking at me with a mixture of terror and hunger that hit me straight in the solar plexus.
"Stay here," I ordered. "Don't open this door for anyone but me."
"Yes, Sir," she whispered.
The "Sir" slipped out. Unintentional. Subconscious.
It nearly brought me to my knees.
I turned and shoved the door open, stepping back into the noise, back into the chaos, leaving the only thing that mattered back in the dark.
I was in trouble. I was in deep, catastrophic trouble. And I loved it.