5. Adeline
Adeline
Ihave gone to bars throughout this city, but tonight is different.
Tonight is the first time I’m going out with people from class. I overheard someone in my dorm talking about Friday night drinks, and then a classmate mentioned it. The marketing majors are rallying around to form better friendships.
I jumped at the chance and sent a photo to Nat before I headed over. Proof I am building a life at NYU, plus a tiny bit of flaunting because this mini black dress looks fucking spectacular.
Except the closer I get to the bar, the more I realize that most of my fellow students are wearing jeans.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Adeline Akatav has always been a teeny bit extra.
“Mr. Akatov will not like this,” Jack says.
I roll my eyes. “Having a hard on for my father is not a requirement. He’s already hired you.”
For reasons unknown. Jack doesn’t know the fucking meaning of blending in.
Usually our guards understand boundaries. And while I was the kid who always tested them, I’m not crazy thinking Jack is clingy.
My parents always wanted us to at least have a sense of independence. The guards are here to protect, not to tattle on us. But Jack doesn’t wander behind me at a respectful distance. He doesn’t give me space when we’re weaving through NYU buildings.
Shit, last night when I was at the library studying, he sat right beside me. If I hadn’t been furiously reading thanks to an upcoming quiz, I would have thrown a hissy fit.
Nat told me to get over it. That, of course, Mom and Dad will be worried about me, thanks to my track record.
I’d like to see how she’d react if every choice she made came with commentary from some blond twenty-six year-old who thinks he’s the Bratva's finest.
“The legal age to drink is twenty-one,” Jack reminds, eliciting another eye roll. His jaw sets when he notices.
“I know the legal drinking age.”
“Then you understand why your father—”
“Yeah, we’re so not doing that. The whole ‘your father’ thing. I’m going to a bar to meet up with friends. If I drink, that’s my business.”
I’ve never had a guard scowl at me before. At least not the way Jack does.
It’s so intense my heart skips a beat. A spark of unease because what the fuck is this guy’s problem?
“One day something bad will happen to you, Adeline Akatov. And you’ll only have yourself to blame.”
I stop walking. He doesn’t break eye contact, the air muggy in the night.
“And one day you’ll remember the time you were a bitch to Adeline Akatov and think better of it.”
My shoulders are tight as I turn away from him, marching into the bar. The back of my neck pricks, but I refuse to let him see how stiff I am. How annoyed I am at this asshole.
Something bad will happen.
He’s not the first guard who’s tried to give me the ‘Please don’t be so reckless’ speech. But this is not like the time I forced Tobias to a drag show in New Jersey. My life lately has been nothing but school and my internship.
I deserve a drink no matter what this asshole thinks.
“Hi, you’re Billie, right?” I ask a girl from my statistics class. I take a seat next to her, balancing my cranberry vodka.
Billie’s got deep auburn hair with freckles and has this totally down-to-earth, Stevie Nicks style. She’s wearing jeans, but she doesn’t roll her eyes at my little black dress. If anything, she smiles wider when she spots me, and I feel better.
Despite what Nat thinks, I didn’t expect to become best friends with my roommates. I can admit, though, I want to make friends. Or at least for someone to be willing to give friendship a shot.
My shoulders relax, the vodka soothing me. There’s a tension headache that won’t go away, though. It’s like a web, starting in the center of my forehead and spreading out.
I smile as Billie introduces me to people. I take notes of those I think I’ve seen around Brittany Hall before. Perhaps I can hang out with them when Rina decides to pluck her pubes again.
“Would you like another?” I offer Billie. I’m not one to brag, but I’ve had a fake ID since I was fifteen, and thanks to my time hanging around Russians, I’m pretty damn good at holding my liquor.
“Thanks,” Billie says, and a spark of appreciation glows in my chest. What a weird fucking week if I’m excited about buying my classmate a drink.
Don’t be a pick me, I tell myself, internally groaning. It’s so not a good look.
There’s a crowd at the bar, and I look for a spot to sidle up to. There’s a group of women giggling. A few young guys, who are clearly on their way to becoming finance bros, stand around in their Italian loafers.
There’s a bearded man at the end, the grumpiness exuding from him.
It’s a shame because he’s kind of cute, with his thick beard and dark hair.
If they weren’t narrowed, they might be pretty, and I’m a sucker for a man in a button-down with a wristwatch.
It’s the classy bitch inside me. But there’s something off about him.
Because he’s alone and because he’s scowling at me like I’ve done something to him, I give him a wide berth.
I’ve already caught enough woman hating vibes from Jack—which will be addressed with my mom pronto—so I’m really not willing to get close.
I wait my turn until I can speak to a bartender, ordering an extra shot of vodka.
I throw it back, not in the mood for anyone’s judgment. It’s been a long, freaking week.
Our group of classmates ebbs and flows. We’ve only ended the third week of school, but it feels like everyone has at least one established friend. The person they turn to when making an extra comment. Or they’re already swapping stories about something that occurred during class.
I sit on my barstool, wishing I’d had another shot, sipping on my cranberry vodka. Almost everyone else has a beer in front of them, but I’ve never been a fan.
Maybe I got the vibe wrong? Maybe I dressed to go out dancing.
Maybe I do, in fact, want to go dancing.
I don’t need friends to go out and go dancing.
The idea of jumping up and down, of loud pumping music, grows in my veins. I’m handed another vodka, and I smile but blink as I try to track which of my classmates was in charge of this round.
I smile as people talk around me, but my headache won’t go. Nat’s voice warns me that clubbing won’t help said headache, but at this point, fuck it.
“We’re headed back,” Billie tells me. “You want to walk with us?”
I shake my head, too tired of small talk to even respond properly.
“I’ll see you in class,” Billie says.
“Night.” I wave goodbye, tripping in the opposite direction.
If there’s one thing I know about New York City, it’s where to go when it’s late at night and you want to keep partying.
“Come on,” I tell Jack. Hope he enjoys pounding music and staying up until three in the morning. “Jack?” I say a second later, glancing over my shoulder.
For a second the shadows play, the street seemingly empty. I jump when Jack appears by my shoulder.
I stumble back. “Fuc—”
“Have you not had enough?” the guard asks.
“Enough of you,” I huff and march around him. He grabs my arm, jerking me back.
Words gather on my tongue. A mixture of ‘how dare you’ and ‘what the actual fuck.’ He pulls on my arm again, and I lose my breath when our chests bump.
A realization crystallizes, hardening in me.
I’ve never been manhandled by a guy before. I get plenty of creepy weirdos trying to hit up my DMs. There have been flirty texts from boys who are chasing dates. I’ve dealt with handsy boyfriends.
But I’ve never truly feared for myself in a particular way that so many women understand.
Jack’s eyes have changed. They’re not just disapproving or hardened. They’re beady little things. His chest is puffed out like this is his chance to prove something, only I’m not understanding why it entails jerking me around.
“Hey,” I breathe out, and I know it lacks gumption. There’s a squirm in my chest as I try to dig deep to find the sharp knife’s edge that all Akatovs are born with.
My back bumps into a wall, the bricks rough against the open back dress. I’m not wearing a bra.
Jack’s hand shoots out, twisting the fabric of my skirt.
Panic burns into me, words trying to babble out, as he reaches for an area that he does not have permission to touch.
“The fuck!” I push against him.
He spits at me, and this somehow stuns me more than if he’d hit me.
My muscles run cold, my mouth tumbling open. I’m pinned against a brick wall, but I am in a complete freefall.
Jack makes a noise. His knees buckle, and then he’s thrown to the side.
Big brown eyes meet mine. The grumpy guy from the bar.
“Do you normally let men just shove their hands up your skirt?”
My brow pinches. It takes me a moment to process the accent. He’s. . . Irish?
“Answer me,” he growls.
I shake my head. No, I do not let men shove their hands up my skirt, thank you very much.
He kicks Jack, who’s trying to stand up.
“Then why the fuck did he have his hand up your dress?”
My shoulders jerk each time he speaks, his tone like gravel along my skin.
“Adeline,” he warns. “It seems you’ve got yourself a bit of a problem.”
I want to sink to the ground, to put my head in my hands, and to rock myself side to side.
The man grabs Jack by the shoulders, hauling him up. “You’re one of Wallen’s, aren’t you?”
My mind pings at the name. He’s a business associate of Dad’s.
Oh, shit.
I thought Jack was a creep. Fuck, it’s so much worse.
My chest rises and falls. Is Wallen trying to hurt my dad? My family?
“What the fuck were you going to do?” I ask Jack, my chest tight.
He bares his teeth, not even pretending to be anything other than a monster. “You’re nothing but a spoiled pussy.”
The man pushes him to the ground with a thud. “You’re right, she is,” he says, “but unfortunately for you, her pussy wasn’t made for you.”
Jack gnashes his teeth. Blood runs down his temple, his eyes burning with tempestuous disaster. It’s wild compared to the steady darkness in the stranger’s dark eyes.
“Does the little Irish think he can save the day?” Jack taunts him.
“That’s enough out of you,” the man says, calmly, his gaze shifting to me.
My spine molds into the brick wall, the heels of my feet scraping the rough material.
“You’ve got an option,” he tells me. “You can either ask for my help or you can deal with him yourself.”
My brows quirk together. Does he think I can’t handle Jack? I can fucking. . .
The man cocks his head to the side, and I swear we’re both thinking the same scenarios through.
The stranger leaves, and it’s just me and Jack. There’s no time to call for backup, and there’s no way Jack, who’s acting like a caged animal trying to get out, is going to run away. He knows there’s no good end to this. Which means he knocks me down and goes after my pussy again.
My breathing shallows, pins and needles stinging my skin.
“You didn’t even notice,” the stranger says, “when he got rid of your phone.”
My fingers curl into fists. My purse is on the ground. I can’t remember the last time I held my phone.
“Or when he handed you drinks you shouldn’t have been taking.” His voice scrapes against my soul, damnation and disappointment clear.
Is that why I feel like I’m floating? I didn’t eat dinner but I definitely feel lighter than normal. I didn’t drink nearly as much as I normally do.
Before I can sort my feelings and memories any further, Jack lunges. The glint of steel in his hand dislodges a shout.
Akatovs do not cower. Our legs don’t shake. We are in control at all times.
“Please!” I yelp, eyes closing. There’s noise and then silence. When I peel my eyes open, my vision is blurry. My lashes are wet, and my stomach drops.
Jack is on the ground, more blood running from his temple.
“What, is he?”
The man gazes down at Jack’s slumped body. Then back at me. His face is blank except for those blazing brown eyes.
“W-who—”
“Ciaran O’Connell,” he introduces, his accent thicker. “And since I’ve helped you out, it seems you owe me a favor.”
My stomach twists. I back into the brick wall again, my hands still in fists by my side.
Life is just a sick game, Adeline. I, out of everyone, should know all about shadows in the night. Yet, here I am. Trapped.
“A-are you going to hurt me?” My legs haven’t stopped shaking.
Ciaran steps over Jack’s body. My head jerks back when he lifts a hand. He lets it hover, almost like he’s testing me to see if I’ll move again, before he slowly pushes my hair behind my ear.
The movement is delicate. His words are not. “No, I’m going to own you.”