Chapter 10 Violet #2
I peek up at Jagger again, taking in the dark bruising and reddish tint tainting the whites of his eye.
A pang of…something hits between my ribs.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Because even though I went to watch him get his ass kicked, when it actually happened, I didn’t like it.
At all. And even now, I can’t figure out why.
None of the other fights bothered me. Hell, I could appreciate them for what they were.
A sport. A performance. And sure, there weren’t quite as many rules as hockey or football, but the point was still very clear.
Pick a side. Cheer. Protest. Soak up every drop of adrenaline as if it’s your own, and applaud the winner, mourn the loser.
Rinse and repeat. So why did I want to smack Ethan for rehashing the same two minutes over and over again, every retelling containing a little more of his victory and a little less of Jagger’s.
“Are you and him a thing?” Jagger demands.
My brows pull. Who? Me and Ethan? A thing? The idea alone is laughable, but it serves its purpose and is enough to bring me back to earth. To remind me that Jagger and I aren’t friends. We aren’t even acquaintances. He’s nothing but an ass who royally screwed me over, and I’m…no one.
“It’s none of your business,” I announce. “And neither is how long I’ve known Ethan Morgan or where I got my sweatshirt, so unless you have something to say about the money you stole from me, I think I’ll be on my way.”
I start to move around him, but his grip on my sweatshirt tightens. “Not finished talking, Little Thief.”
“It’s cute you think I care.” My attention flicks from his hold on me to his eyes. “Do you feel like getting kneed in the balls again or…?”
“I said, I’m not finished talking.”
Not finished talking. Who does this guy think he is? The king of England? My nostrils flare at the audacity of this man whose ego is obviously still very much intact despite his ass being handed to him. I slap his hand away, and surprisingly, he lets me go.
Well that was…easy? Refusing to look him in the eye, let alone acknowledge my own confusion at how effortlessly the man knocks me off kilter even when he’s doing what I want him to, I rip the stupid hoodie off my body and shove it into his chest. “Here. One less thing for you to bitch about and irrationally hold over my head. Now, if you’ll excuse me.
” I grab the backpack from the ground and toss it over my shoulder.
However, when it falls against my back, a sharp hiss slips past my clenched teeth, and I flinch.
Ouch!
Something flashes in his dark eyes as Jagger stares down at me.
Watching me. Analyzing me. Replaying the last three seconds in his mind while searching for clues.
For the reason behind my strange and seemingly unwarranted response.
It only confuses me more. Because there isn’t a single guy I’ve ever met who would’ve noticed my reaction.
Yet here he is, the one man I want nothing to do with, giving me a pointed—almost lethal—look, all because he noticed my discomfort.
My pulse ratchets up as I stand in front of him.
Speechless. Motionless. Simply waiting, even though I have no idea what I’m waiting for.
It’s like, if I move, if I say something, it’ll trigger a response, and the last thing I need is a response or a reaction from the infamous Jagger Harden.
Nope. What I need from this guy is…nothing.
Nothing at all. I take it back. What I need is for Jagger Harden to stop looking at me like this.
Like he knows. Like he’s so close to snapping, he doesn’t even need to actually see the evidence behind my discomfort. The only thing holding him back is…me.
His name sits on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back, determined to maintain the silence rather than witness the potential fallout that might follow. I don’t know why. It’s not like he’d care, it’s just…not his problem.
It’s not his problem.
Without a word, Jagger lifts his hand and slips it around the opposite strap on my backpack.
And for some reason I can’t explain, I let him.
Lowering the bag back to the ground, he moves around me in a slow, calculated step.
It reminds me of the first time we met. When he caught me in his brother’s room.
And just like before, my body freezes in place while my head swivels on instinct, following his movement and catching the same spark of understanding when his vision finally lands on my lower back and what I know is peeking beneath my crop top.
“What the fuck—”
“I fell.” The lie slips out of me easily but hangs in the air with a weight I don’t expect.
His attention doesn’t leave my back as he continues his assessment. “Fell,” he repeats. Numbly. Coldly.
I’m not an idiot. He doesn’t believe me. Hell, I don’t believe me, but I don’t know what else he wants me to say. Keeping his movements slow and calculated, he brushes his knuckle against the tender skin. I flinch again, shying away from his touch. “Okay, enough.”
“Who did this to you?” he growls.
I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of his words. How cliched they sound. How useless they really are.
“Who hurt you?” he pushes.
Seriously? What is it with this man and rehashing the same conversations?
“I already told you. I fell,” I say.
Unamused, he finally looks me in the eye instead of examining my bruise. Standing to his full height, he pins me with his dark stare. “Who. Hurt. You?”
A noose squeezes around my ribcage, but I ignore it the best I can.
“You know, considering how often we rehash the exact same conversations, you should really get your hearing checked.” I fold my arms and glare up at him because the last thing I’m going to do is give in and tell him the truth. Besides, what good will it do?
The same tic in his jaw greets me, and his upper lip flinches as if he’s holding back the snarl I thought I glimpsed earlier.
I can’t decide if it’s because of my own stubbornness, or if he’s pulling up the image of my bruise in his mind.
Or hell, maybe it’s for the man who put it there originally.
Not that it matters. It’s none of his business and wouldn’t have happened in the first place if he’d given me my money back like I begged him to.
“Now, will this be all, or am I free to go?” I challenge. I wonder if he really believes I’m going to budge or give in to his every whim like every other person he’s used to dealing with. Jokes on you, buddy. I can do this all day long.
Finally, he growls, “Do you want to earn your money back, Little Thief?”
The one-eighty makes me dizzy, and I shake my head. “What?”
“I said, do you want to earn your money back?”
“Why?”
“Call it a change of heart,” he offers.
Spidey-senses tingling, I quip, “Do I earn it by kneeing you in the balls again? Because if so, where do I sign up?”
His mouth twitches, somehow managing to cut through the rage and indifference that’ve been fighting for the spotlight on his handsome face ever since he saw my back. “Not exactly what we have in mind,” he finally answers.
“We?” I scoff. “As in your brothers?”
“It’s a family business. We all have a say in how things are run.”
“Well, I’m not going to sleep with any of you, if that’s where you’re going with this.”
With a smirk, a real, genuine smirk this time, he scratches his jaw, looking sexier than any man has any right to be. “Never had to pay someone to sleep with me, Little Thief.”
“That’s surprising,” I lie.
His brows hitch. “Is it?”
Okay, it’s not surprising at all. Pretty sure most girls would pay a pretty penny just to be in this guy’s presence, let alone have his attention for free or be underneath him. Or on top. Or pressed against the nearest tree, or—
Focus, Violet!
As if he knows he’s called my bluff, Jagger murmurs, “Don’t worry. You're not my type.”
“You like your girls curvy, too?”
“I like them honest and without a stick up their ass.”
My jaw drops at his candor, but I recover quickly, tossing back at him, “That’s rich, coming from a guy who was clearly born with a stick up his ass.”
His gaze darkens. “It’s for a game.”
“The stick up your ass? Gross.”
“I meant the way you could earn your money,” he clarifies.
Duh.
I could ask for details. I could admit the truth.
That I could genuinely use an opportunity to earn back my money.
But it would mean giving in. And giving in, in a way, feels like surrendering.
If I’ve learned anything in my stupidly rocky life, it’s that I’m resilient, if nothing else, so why cave now?
Sobering, I counter, “I don’t play games, remember? ”
“Everything’s a game, Violet.”
Violet.
My lips part as the way he says my name washes over me. The sharpness of the t at the end. The low rumble from his chest. He knows my name. How the hell does he know my name? I didn’t tell him. I refused to. Hell, he took a knee to the balls because of it.
“How do you—”
“Do you want my help or not?” he demands.
Why do I feel like I’m making a deal with the devil?
“Not,” I announce, well-aware I’m too stubborn for my own good.
Reading my silence as contempt, and let’s be real, it probably is, Jagger shakes his head and holds out the hoodie. “Fine. Take it.”
I look down at the fabric in question. “I don’t want it.”
“What? You think it has cooties now?” The hoodie hangs between us for a solid two seconds until Jagger drops it onto my backpack lying at our feet.
“You really are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.
” With another brisk shake of his head, he steps away from me.
“Take it or leave it, but it’ll help cover up your bruise. You know, from the fall.”
As he turns on his heel and strides away, I roll my eyes at the man’s temper tantrum.
Heaven forbid he deals with someone who doesn’t bend to his every whim.
Then again, standing up to the enemy isn’t always the smartest thing to do.
I have a feeling there will be repercussions for my metaphorical dissent.
Yeah, I’m totally going to fail my class.
Resigned to my fate, I reach for the discarded heap of fabric lying on my backpack and slip it over my head, careful not to let the hoodie brush against my back again because even if I don’t want to admit it, he’s right about it doing its job in covering up the mark I have no doubt is purple and likely the size of my hand at this point.
But the most annoying part of it all? It’s the way my brain plays tricks on me, making me wonder if the scent of him could possibly still cling to the worn fabric as I slide it over my head, well aware it’s been washed at least twice since it wound up in my possession.
Yeah…I’m supremely in trouble.