CHAPTER 63 #2
Oh. Right.
“The DJ?” I say, squawking out a laugh.
The guy’s been dancing to his own tunes more than anyone on the actual dance floor the entire night—which, more power to him.
“Yeah,” I mock, “and who’d you pick for you?”
The question hangs between us like a thorned challenge.
“You’re a smart girl,” Troy says. “I’ll let you figure that out.”
_________
The gala is exactly how I pictured it would be. Except, the Faerieladle Country Club is puked with even more stringed lights. From the outside.
The inside is covered in fine crystals. Crystals on ball gowns, crystals hanging from the chandelier and girls’ wrists, necks, and ears, and even more crystals lining the white four-panel ceiling drapes in the lobby.
If I wasn’t so mesmerized by chiffon and tulle drifting past me at every turn, I’d be appalled at how the majority of this town lives in such lavish.
But tonight, I’m one of them.
Yeah, not really.
Mrs. Waterhouse’s greeting was just the reality check I needed that no fancy dress gifted by a rich guy could somehow turn you into an elite member of society. Certainty not in this town.
I wouldn’t have expected anything cordial or genuine from the coordinator of the Country Club, knowing how close Susan Waterhouse is with the entire Dupont Dynasty.
The whole conversation felt like Violet had written the script herself and was shoving the words through an ear piece from a prickly bush somewhere.
Seeing the blonde later on the dance floor with her typical entourage and Ethan cozied up by her side debunked that theory and also led me to this bathroom.
That’s right, I dashed into the powder room as soon as I saw them, with no powder in my tiny clutch, disappearing from the overwhelming crowd.
Breathing has turned into my Achilles Heel as of late. As of last night.
Since Troy touched me.
Since Troy touched me, but not really.
Staring at myself through the giant antique mirror, it’s like I’m becoming less and less recognizable by the day.
Everything he said, it was all true.
And I hated it all, being humiliated like that, then left hanging.
It’s a game.
It’s always been a game, stupid girl.
Smoothing the bottom of my dress, I regain my composure, my logic, the remnants of my sanity, pulling myself together and out of the bathroom.
Then my heart jumps against my chest, reminding me at how fucked I am for feeding myself a string of lies just now.
Troy’s walking in my direction, spotting me as well.
The breathing, it suddenly grows erratic again.
Dropping his gaze to my shoulders, he reaches a hand out, before it registers what he’s doing.
He’s just adjusting the silk that’s resting on my neck. Though, he might as well be adjusting my panties when that’s the area being affected.
Focus on your breathing, I repeat the words until they get through to my lungs.
But his words won’t erase.
About my scarf.
What would he do with it?
What would he do to me with it?”
And the curiosity gets the best of me…
“What would you do with it?” I blurt out, surprising us both.
He lets go of the silk, flicking his eyes to mine.
Waiting, my heartbeat feels like a bomb about to go off.
“A gentleman never spills his secrets, Ana.”
Motherfucker—
Troy drops his hands to his sides, a sudden nonchalance replacing his expression. “We should probably take our seats before they’re all filled. Dinner’s about to start.”
_________
I can no longer stand to look at him.
Which is fine and dandy to me, our table’s filled with a slew of other people: Conrad, Dimitri, and Perla, just to name a few.
Despite that, sitting beside the guy that I refuse to pay attention to for the remainder of the evening, at some point I feel both our gazes drift to my lap.
That’s because the slit of my dress adjacent to Troy’s leg has parted, revealing the top mesh of my black sheer stockings underneath.
His gaze sits on my thigh for more than a few seconds—with the most neutral facial expression on Earth—glancing away without muttering a word.
“Seriously,” I don’t mean to voice aloud.
Troy ignores that too.
So when the evening is finally over, and the confetti sticks to the wet pavement as we’re heading toward our cars, after holding everything—the side-eye from the other girls, Mrs. Waterhouse, Violet, and Troy’s relentless games—in, my lungs finally collapse.
The midnight air hazy, and no sign of gala attendees or any other people for that matter, I pause our walking.
“You had some nerve waltzing in like that tonight at any chance I was with a guy,” I say.
Quiet, he keeps walking, bolting me to push in front of him, stopping him.
The anger he means to scare me with does nothing, only numbing his own face, his eyes swimming with fear.
Actual. Fear?
And I finally see it.
All his lies, all the hate, all the jabs—the games—none of it has been from his arrogance, the way he’s been moving me to think. No, he’s scared.
Troy Larsson is scared of me.
“Troy?”
Avoiding his eyes, I start playing with his silk tie, confidence drowning in me at the sudden revelation.
“Yeah?” he says, his voice trepid.
“Do I intimidate you?” My eyes flick up to his. “Is that why you only want to fuck me with your eyes?”
That does it. He cracks.
In one swift motion, Troy pins me against the wall beside us, one hand wrapped around my neck, the other slipping through the slit of my dress, scraping up my stocking, ripping it, as he drags his fingers along my hipbone.
His mouth hovering right above mine, he doesn’t break the powerful hold on my gaze as his lips part.
“If I fuck you the way I want, you won’t be able to skate for weeks,” he rasps.
The words cling to my chest, ripping it free.
But then he backs away, leaving me there pressed up against the brick wall, cold and dry.