Chapter 4 #2
"You’re good at math. You calculated the tip at dinner last week in three seconds. You’re good at cooking steak. You’re good at terrifying freshmen."
A corner of his mouth ticked up. "A vital skill."
"You’re smart, Graham. You don't have to break your body to prove you’re worth something."
"My father disagrees."
The words hung in the air. Heavy. Loaded.
" The Senator," I said. "He called you yesterday."
"He calls every day. To remind me that Vanes don't fail. We don't get injured. We don't have scandals." He closed his eyes again. "If I don't go first round in the draft, I’m useless to him. I become… a bad investment."
I froze.
A bad investment.
The exact words my father had used to describe my painting.
I looked at his back. The broad, burdened shoulders carrying the weight of a legacy he didn't ask for.
We were the same.
We were two sides of the same shiny, gold-plated coin. He was the son who had to be perfect to earn love. I was the daughter who acted out because I knew I’d never be perfect enough to earn it. We were both dancing for men who only loved us when we performed.
My heart squeezed. It was a painful, expanding sensation in my chest.
"Turn around," I said. My voice was husky.
He sat up slowly, turning to face me. The pain was still there in his eyes, but it was duller now. Or maybe he was just hiding it better.
I picked up the black tape.
"I’m going to strap it," I said. "It will help lift the muscle and drain the fluid. But you have to tell me if it’s too tight."
He nodded. He watched my face as I peeled the backing off the tape.
I leaned in. I had to get close. My knees bumped against his between the coffee table and the couch. I was practically standing between his legs.
I applied the first strip, starting at his chest and pulling it over the shoulder to his back. I had to wrap my arms around him to smooth it down.
My cheek brushed his chest. He smelled like the menthol gel now, but underneath that, the cedar scent remained. His heart was beating slow and heavy against my ear. Thump. Thump. Thump.
I pulled back to check the tension.
He was staring at me. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the grey iris.
"Faye," he said.
"Yeah?" I was focused on the tape, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Clause 1," I said, smoothing the second strip down. "Maintenance of the premises. You are the premises."
"Bullshit."
I looked up then. Our faces were inches apart.
"Because," I whispered, the truth slipping out. "Because I know what it feels like to have a father who looks at you and sees a balance sheet instead of a person."
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. The hostility from yesterday was gone. The possessiveness was gone. In its place was something softer. Something far more dangerous.
Recognition.
"He cut you off because of the painting," Graham stated.
"Yes. How did you—"
"I saw the sketchpad in your bag. The one you tried to hide." He reached out with his left hand—his good hand—and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my jawline. His skin was rough, calloused from the hockey stick. "You're good, Faye. You have an eye for light."
My breath hitched. "You haven't even seen my work."
"I saw the way you looked at the city lights last night. You were dissecting the color. You weren't drinking to get drunk; you were drinking to blur the edges."
I shivered. He saw too much. He saw everything.
"We have a problem," I whispered.
"We have several."
"I can't… I can't hate you if you're going to be human."
"I never asked you to hate me." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "I asked you to obey me."
"I can't do that either."
"I know."
He dropped his hand. The loss of contact was immediate and cold.
"The tape helps," he said, rolling his shoulder experimentally. He winced, but the range of motion was better.
"You can't play tonight," I said.
"I have to."
"Graham—"
"I have to play. But…" He looked at me, weighing his options. "I can't drive. I can't cook. I can't lift anything heavier than a fork with this arm for forty-eight hours if I want it to heal."
"So you need a nurse."
"I need an ally."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing him down to my eye level.
"New deal," he said.
"We already have a contract."
"Addendum A," he corrected. "You help me hide this. You drive me to the rink. You help me with the tape. You pick up my slack around the house so I don't have to exert the arm."
"And in return?" I crossed my arms. "What do I get? More chore lists?"
"In return," Graham said, his voice dropping to that lethal, quiet register, "I handle your father."
My heart stopped. "What?"
"I know how Silas Allister works. He respects power. He respects leverage. Right now, you have neither. But I do."
"You play for him. He owns you."
"He owns my contract. He doesn't own the Vane name. My father sits on the Senate Appropriations Committee. Silas needs permits for his new stadium. He needs my family."
Graham’s eyes were cold now, calculating. The shark was back.
"I can make a call," he said. "I can get your accounts unfrozen. I can get him to back off. I can buy you time to paint, to get into that Paris program, to get out of here."
"Why?" I asked, trembling. "Why would you do that for me?"
"Because," Graham said, reaching out and taking my hand. He didn't squeeze it; he just held it, encompassing my smaller fingers in his massive palm. "If we're going to survive this semester without killing each other, we need a common enemy. And frankly, I’m tired of fighting you, Faye."
I looked at our joined hands. The tape on his shoulder. The bruise on my ego.
He was offering me a way out. He was offering to be the shield I had never had.
"Okay," I whispered. "Deal."
"Deal."
He didn't let go of my hand.
"Now," he said, standing up slowly, pulling me up with him. "Help me get a shirt on. We have to go to the rink. If I'm late, people start asking questions."
I picked up his shirt. I bunched it up in my hands. I stood on my tiptoes to pull it over his head, careful of the shoulder. My hands skimmed his chest as I pulled the fabric down.
He stood perfectly still, watching me.
"Faye?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't wear that lipstick tonight."
I paused, smoothing the grey cotton over his abs. "Why? Clause 4?"
"No," he said, turning toward the door. "Because if I see you wearing it again, I’m going to ruin it. And I don't have time to fix you before the game."
He walked away, leaving me standing in the living room, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, terrified by the realization that I wanted him to ruin it. I wanted him to ruin everything.