Chapter 20 #2
He may not have used me—I enjoyed it, too, and I wanted it—but he abused me. They all need to be purged, and then I can live.
Closing the distance between us, he keeps his hands in his pockets, every curve of his chest pressing against his T-shirt.
“Maybe I should keep her for a while,” he taunts. “Make sure she’s safe.”
I lift my eyebrows, playing along. “A hostage.”
“She’ll sleep tight.”
“With five motherfuckers who never sleep alone,” I grit out.
“I slept alone last night.”
So?
“And the night before,” he says.
And my stomach dips at that. He hasn’t been with anyone since me last Friday?
“Did you?” he asks. “Sleep alone?”
Oh, I see.
I tilt my head, remembering the call with Micah earlier while Dallas was watching.
“He’s not right for you,” he explains.
Says the man who really knows how to treat people. Please.
I pull out my phone. “He said things to me today you never will.”
And I don’t even look at him for his reaction. I dial Vincent.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
I can hear the rain hitting Milo’s car roof. They must be outside.
“I’m going to stay and get some work done,” I explain. “Sophia’s sleeping on a couch in the teachers’ lounge.”
Finally, I lift my eyes.
“Dallas is somewhere in here,” I say to Vincent, looking at the former. “You know what to do if he comes out.”
Dallas cocks an eyebrow, a smile tilting up the corner of his mouth.
He loves a challenge.
Vincent sighs. “Glad I brought a bottle.”
Hanging up, I slide my hands into my pockets, still holding my phone.
I don’t need them knowing Sophia’s not here. I wouldn’t put it past anyone to not be reporting back to my father, and it needs to look like I’m handling everything.
And they can’t drag Dallas out. He’s not breaking curfew if he’s indoors.
Walking around me, he exits his classroom slowly, and I trail behind.
“I’ll give you a head start,” I announce. “Come on. I’d love to go home and get some sleep.”
If he leaves, they’ll give chase, and I can get out of here sans Sophia, no mishaps being reported back to Garrett Ames.
Dallas keeps walking, down the stairs. “Nothing’s stopping you from going.”
“If I walk out of here without Sophia—”
“She prefers to go by Anna-Katherine.”
“They’ll know she’s not here,” I point out, ignoring him. “And I don’t want to drag everyone over into your shithole tonight. All that mud.”
Dallas pulls off his shirt as he makes a right, toward the gym. “You looked good in mud.”
Sliding my eyes down his spine, I soak in his damp skin and the way his figure gets narrower from his shoulders to his waist. That body has fought me, pinned me, pressed me, laid on me, and thrust into me. It occurs to me how nice it is to look at him. I rarely got a chance when we were younger.
He opens the door to the gym. “Sanoa Bay is the cleanest place you’ve ever been, and you know it.”
I follow him in. “It will be soon.”
I’ll put on a good show, proving I’m one of the men of St. Carmen as I document leverage in the Wolfe Room to secure loyalty and lure all my father’s investors away from him. The Bay will be mine, everyone begging to do business with me, and Dallas Jaeger will find himself at my mercy.
The trick will be not making him so angry that he leaves. I’ll need leverage for that, too.
Tossing his shirt to the ground, he lies down on a weight bench, his feet on the floor as he lifts the barbell above his head.
His arms flex, his chest stretches wide, and his abs constrict, but my gaze almost immediately falls to his groin as it presses against his track pants. I don’t think he’s wearing anything under them.
The pulse in my neck knocks against my skin, heat pooling low in my stomach.
I’m not leaving him alone. He could find another exit and slip out.
Watching him push the bar up again and again, I peel off my quarter zip and shirt and jump onto the treadmill.
Dallas continues weight training, completing reps on the weight bench, the chest press, and the triceps pulldown, and I stare ahead, watching him through the mirror.
What does he know about wealth and power? Did he get that little lecture from a book?
Just because Dallas teaches philosophy doesn’t make him a philosopher.
But…
He said it so confidently. And while I know he’s right, how does he? What experience does he have?
I jog, watching the muscles in his back constrict, bulging under the skin.
Do the Jaegers have a lot of money?
I gathered they had more than I thought, given the continued neighborhood improvements and prosperity over the last few years, but…do they have a fortune?
The wheels turn in my head as I try to reconcile the possibility against what I’ve observed.
They know what it means to be hungry, and if Macon’s smart, he wouldn’t allow their appetites to increase if they found themselves prosperous.
Especially if the income isn’t legal. No buying a bunch of fancy cars, boats, or homes in St. Carmen. It would draw attention.
He wouldn’t want his brothers becoming us, either.
It’s funny how I never envisioned Dallas in my world.
When we were fucking all those years ago—and I let my imagination fuel an emotional attachment—it was always a future with me on his side of the tracks.
The powers that be in St. Carmen would probably worry he’d drive down the property value in my neighborhood with his lack of manners.
In my head, it was always me in his bed, us on their beaches, and my car parked at his home.
He might fit in at mine, though. To some extent. He did look good in a suit.
That should’ve been my first clue they had more money than I thought. There were subtle hints, and the suit he wore into the Wolfe Room—half of which he left behind—was a good one. Made for him, actually. The quality of the fabric, the tailoring…Dead giveaway.
I just got so hot, absorbing the sight of him in it, that I didn’t question it.
Sweat covers his chest and back, and I glance down, seeing I’ve been running for twelve minutes already.
He slicks back his straight hair, now damp, and moves to the floor.
His eyes peer over his shoulder, locking on mine, and I’m a drone, my body doing my thinking for me as I just continue to run, my mind on him.
Shoes flat on the floor and knees bent and parted, he starts doing sit-ups, his stomach tightening as he curls up and lies back down over and over again. His spine presses out of the skin, his toned waist tight and glowing as he faces the mirror.
I don’t have to look to know he’s watching me now, too, facing the mirror as he is, but I don’t give a shit.
Halting my machine, I jump off the treadmill and pull a water out of the cooler.
I walk to the mahogany benches in front of the wall of mirrors and take a seat, uncapping the bottle and pouring some water into my hand.
I splash it over my face and neck, streams gliding down my chest as I lean back and meet his eyes again.
Shooting up and back down, he doesn’t look away or stop his sit-ups. Never afraid, even knowing I could bring the boys in here right now and beat the shit out of him.
I think he likes having my attention.
His body constricts over and over again, my fingers aching to clench—to wrap around something as my gaze coasts over his built shoulders, his tight chest, and the ridges of his abs. My mouth practically waters. God, he’s got a body.