Chapter 12
Callum
My temper climbs as I watch the perverted prick place his hands on Lucy’s waist and reposition her.
I glance around for something small to chuck at the back of his head. A table of miniature water bottles catches my eye.
I swipe one, squeezing hard enough to send water raining out of my fist.
What is that asshole doing?
And more importantly, why hasn’t Lucy whipped that bottle of pepper spray out of her ass the way she did with me in the alley?
I wait a few seconds, expecting her to go off on the man. She doesn’t.
That’s when I realize I’m an idiot. Of course she won’t defend herself. That guy’s a judge, and she’s worried about retaliation.
One of his hands wanders up the side of her rib cage, almost reaching her breast. She freezes, panic flitting across her face.
My rage boils over, both at her for prioritizing this job above all else, and at the slimy bastard himself for putting his hands on her.
I spring into action, booking it for the stairs that lead to the stage as I unscrew the water bottle top and flick the cap off. Under the blinding heat of the stage lights, I march straight up to Lucy and the handsy judge and drop the water bottle on the floor at his feet.
He stumbles back with a soft curse, almost slipping in his Italian leather shoes. Even Lucy cracks a smile as he fumbles around like a giraffe on ice.
“Watch out.” I grab his arm to steady him and “accidentally” stomp the fuck out of his foot.
The judge folds over, grunting in pain. I seize the opportunity to lean close under the pretense of apologizing and whisper in his ear.
“If you touch her again, I’ll break your fingers.
All ten of them. Slowly and with great pleasure.
” I pat his back. “And before you pull the ‘do you know who I am’ card and threaten to get me fired, you should know I’m here at Shane Gallagher’s request. Understand? ”
Recognition flashes in the judge’s eyes, and the color drains from his face. “Y-yes, I understand.”
“Good.” I manage a sharp elbow jab to his solar plexus before I straighten.
He moans, clutches his stomach, and waddles away.
“Everything okay, Jimmy?” a woman asks.
“In-indigestion,” he wheezes. “Gonna go grab some meds.”
I capture Lucy’s attention. Her eyes crinkle with confusion before filling with an unfamiliar glow. Studying me as if she’s seeing me for the first time, she moistens her lips and dips her chin in a nearly imperceptible nod, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.
The sight of that smile has a weird effect on my chest, and I feel my own mouth curve up in response.
I return her micro nod and pivot to retreat to the darkness beyond the lights, rubbing my sternum. Who knew such a minor show of warmth could have such a strong impact?
I glance at the hand rubbing my chest and immediately drop it to my side. Christ. Keep this up, and next thing I know, I’ll start calling Darren up to talk about my feelings. The strain of us sharing that box Lucy calls an apartment for the past week must be getting to me.
Wanting to fuck her is one thing. Who wouldn’t? But wanting anything deeper than that should send me sprinting to the hospital for a brain scan. My lifestyle makes dating a challenge, but even if it didn’t, a woman like Lucy Marlow would rank last on my list of potential partners.
I watch the remainder of the audition with renewed determination to maintain a professional distance.
Once the competition portion ends—extending my headache since Lucy progresses yet again—an announcement declaring an after-party for all the successful contestants echoes through the room.
Something about celebrating the end of the first day.
My immediate reaction to the idea of sticking around for an event stuffed full of even more batshit, obnoxious fashion people is a hard pass.
And I’m prepared to tell Lucy exactly that…
until she appears with her fellow contestants, sparkling brighter than the biggest star in the sky.
I open my mouth to inform her we’re leaving, but then I immediately snap it shut.
Rubbing the back of my neck in defeat, I quietly curse whatever crazy spell she’s cast on me.
And there must be a spell, because instead of grabbing her and bringing her home, I trail her and the cluster of models from the ballroom and across the street to The Black Box like a puppy.
I’ve heard of this place. The Black Box is a ritzy, exclusive, upper-crust nightclub on the top floor of an eighty-foot skyscraper. More and more people seem to appear out of nowhere, slowing my pace as I cross the street and obstructing my view of Lucy.
As Lucy gets farther away, my frustration increases. How am I supposed to keep her safe if she bounces around like a ping-pong ball?
By the time I reach the sprawling black marble club floor, she’s vanished.
The frustration in my gut morphs into an icy ball of cold concern. How difficult can it be to spot purple-streaked hair?
A hand drops onto my shoulder from behind. I whip around and reach for my gun, halting when I spy Lucy grinning up at me.
My fingers twitch as the concern transforms into something darker. That million-dollar smile is about to snip the last thread of my control.
I want to shake some sense into that pretty head of hers.
Or flip her over my knee and spank that firm ass until it turns a delicious shade of pink.
I want to rip her clothes off right here in the middle of this crowd and bury myself so deeply inside her that she feels me all the way up in her throat.
The issue is, none of these things fall under the scope of my duties as her bodyguard, and that’s quickly becoming a major problem.
I settle for growling instead. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. I’m armed.”
She tilts her head, radiating smugness. “Doesn’t feel very good, does it?”
I scowl. “One hour and we’re gone.”
She wrinkles her nose, that irritating little smirk still propped up on her face. “I only came over here to ask what you said.”
“When?” I maneuver closer, and she backs away until we’re out of the crowd and leaning on one of these million-dollar walls.
“To the judge.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and I loathe the effect that playful gesture has on me. “After you finished with him, he looked like he was about to pass out. Indigestion, my ass.”
I don’t respond.
Because, whether I want to admit it or not—and I don’t—that incident left me shaken.
The rage I experienced was entirely out of character. Anger and self-directed disbelief burn beneath my skin.
What’s wrong with me?
Why do I still feel trapped in her game? Just like earlier in the ballroom, when her hands roamed all over my body in that uncomfortably sensual display, and this morning in her kitchen…
“Well?” Her tone is bouncy and light.
The sound deepens my anger. “What the fuck did you think you were doing in there?”
Her expression freezes, and her smile falters before dimming. A storm gathers in her eyes. “My job. I was just posing for the portfolio shots when the judge came over—”
“I’m not talking about that cock-for-brains.” I slam my open palm into the wall next to her head, forcing us farther into the dark corner. “I’m talking about the way you used me like a meat mannequin for your touring slut show.”
Distance. I need to restore the distance between us, and if this is the way to accomplish that, then so be it.
Her happy glow extinguishes. “I did what I needed to succeed. It was a ‘take two’ from this morning. Why, what’s the problem? Isn’t that what you do pretty much every single day?”
I hate how her genuine smile disappears, then despise how much the loss bothers me. The fact that she’s right only contributes to my deteriorating mood.
Something inside me snaps. “At least I don’t whore myself out for the attention and approval of some vapid, shallow, brain-dead fashion zombies.”
She winces, hurt flickering across her face. “No, you make backdoor deals with criminals instead.” Her body quivers, but she throws her shoulders back and adopts a brave front. “You must be so proud.”
Her reaction tosses ice water on the shimmering coals of my irritation, and a pang of cold guilt slices between my ribs. “Stay here. I’m going to sweep the perimeter, and then—”
She darts past me, weaving between the thick crowd with grace and speed. It’s obvious she can’t escape me quickly enough.
I probably deserve that.
The pop music blaring through the speakers is ear-splitting. My head throbs as I rush after her, but my size slows me down. I can’t get through the crowd as easily, not without women eyeing me and brushing up against me as though I’m part of tonight’s entertainment.
Finally, over the sea of inebriated partymongers, I spot Lucy’s purple-streaked head. A bald man sporting a beard and glasses intercepts her with a smile. She says something to him, but he taps his ear, shakes his head, and points to a nearby door.
Fuck. My pulse accelerates. Internal alarm bells clamor.
I speed dial Darren and share our location as I barrel through the crowd, knocking people aside in my race to reach Lucy and Baldy. “We may have a situation.”
He doesn’t ask questions. “On the way.”
The call ends.
Lucy Marlow, don’t you leave with him.
The man opens the door and waves her through. Accepting his nonverbal invitation, Lucy heads into the darkened hallway beyond.