The senator would’ve wanted a whole lot more money than my mom or I had. It could’ve bankrupted us. But instead, he offered me a nice little deal… sign an NDA, drop the suit, and everyone will go their separate ways.
Needless to say, I dropped it and signed the nondisclosure agreement.
Grey knows I signed one, obviously. He’s held that over my head since I got to school. But does he realize how far his father went?
He’s tracing a pattern on my leg, and I realize I haven’t given him an answer. I should tell him to clear the air. I should just tell him in general, even if he already knows.
“I will,” I say on a sigh. “But I’d like to hear your stalker theory first.”
Diverting. Again.
He nods. “Right. I saved this.”
He pulls out his phone and brings something up on the screen. I peer over it, upside down, and catch the all-too-familiar headline that haunted us for months. He swipes, and I realize they must be screenshots.
Smart.
He gets to the end and turns the phone around. I scan the page, and my eyes catch on the second to last paragraph. When I was hurt and angry and scared, I read those words and thought it was a blessing. I also thought, YES, he took away my career. Someone else gives a shit. But now, with suspicion—and a heavy dose of reality—it’s chilling.
Though the world will soon forget Greyson Devereux’s role as the antagonist of Ms. Reece’s life, she has supporters who won’t. The ballet community stands behind her.
“Who are these so-called supporters who won’t forget what you did?” I look up. “I was dancing in Crown Point when I got injured. It was a fluke that I was in Rose Hill at all.”
He presses his lips together.
I’ve connected the dots, though. It means whoever is angry enough about this—whoever was, I should say—is in Crown Point. They have to be. Maybe not one of the dancers, because we’re cutthroat about roles. But in the community maybe?
And how did they hear about my accident that happened hours away?
“CPB is ruthless,” I whisper. “If this person was in it, they’d know my spot would’ve been filled in a minute. Mia sought me out because she’s known me forever and cares about me. That’s the only reason I’m coming back.”
I cover my mouth with my hand.
Obviously, it isn’t Mia. She’s the artistic director with far too much to lose—and my injury doesn’t significantly impact her or the company.
But… is she tied to it?
Could she know who wrote that?
“That article is six months old,” Grey points out. He gently pulls my hand from my face. “Maybe I’m wrong—”
“Someone broke into my room,” I blurt out.
He gives me a weird look. “I know.”
“Before that.” My face heats. “They trashed my room. I had a wall of photos, and they wrote whore across it in paint. Everything was destroyed.”
He freezes. I see the moment it sinks in, because it hits me, too.
This is happening. What started as a simple break-in and the feeling of being watched—that I blamed on Greyson—seems to be exploding.
He pulls me down from the counter. “You and Willow aren’t safe in that apartment,” he declares. He taps a message on his phone, then stows it. “You’re going to get your things. Right now.”
“And…？”
“And move in with me.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
Is he nuts? We literally just made up, and it was rather violent. I’ve still got bruises in a ring around my neck. The cut on my breast is scabbing over slightly. There are more bruises on my wrists, too, from the laces he used to tie me up.
There’s still evidence of our anger and hatred clashing together—and my body has suffered the consequences.
His phone chimes, and I peek over his shoulder again.
Knox
On it.
“What is he on?” I ask, suspicious.
He just smiles. “Don’t worry, Vi. You and Willow can still be roommates.”
I shake my head and stride away from him. “I need a shower. And my own clothes before class.”
This can’t be happening.
All of it.
Any of it.
I go back into his room and find my bag on his desk. He tossed it there haphazardly last night, not bothered when it knocked everything askew. I rummage through it for the first time. My pointe shoes are there, the ribbons carefully wrapped so they don’t get tangled. I certainly didn’t do it, and a warm, gooey feeling swims through me.
Who are we?
We should be enemies.
We were, until he decided that we weren’t.
I think, in a way, he knew the outcome of last night before he even arrived at the dance studio. As much as he rolls with the punches—sometimes literally—he’s better when he has a plan. Like in hockey, there are plays. A rule book. Sometimes they go off-script, but he shines when he knows where to put his feet.
That’s my interpretation anyway.
His father must’ve given himself away.
Somehow.
I don’t have many clothes. He stashed my underwear in here, too. I grab them and my jeans. In his closet, I find a folded towel and take it with me.
Hopefully there’s shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom—but part of me doesn’t want to count on it. Guys can be heathens about taking care of their skin and hair.
I lock the door and immediately flip on the water to hot. There is a small bottle of conditioner under the sink, and I silently cheer at whoever slept with a smart girl. I strip out of Greyson’s clothes and step under the blast.
A minute or several later, the door opens and closes. My eyes, which had been closed as I massaged shampoo through my hair, fly open.
Then the curtain pulls back, and Grey steps in with me. Naked, of course. His abs are out of this world. I reach out and touch them before I can stop myself, then let my hand fall away. His cock is hard, bobbing between us.
He’s beautiful, and I kind of hate it. His beauty is what lets him get away with almost everything. Maybe anything.
He smirks. “You think a lock can stop me?”
I roll my eyes.
He motions for me to turn around. I do carefully, giving him my back. Water pounds into my chest. His fingers massaging my temples is too good. I lean into his hands. He lets it go on for another few minutes—probably longer than my hair needs—then gently turns me around. I face him again and keep eye contact as I step back under the water.
Once the soap is out, we trade places. I squirt conditioner into my palm and run it through the strands. He grabs the shampoo and does his own hair, until I stop him. I let out a tsk and inch closer.
We’re doing this.
I reach up and slide my hands into his hair. He watches me carefully. I drag my nails lightly against his scalp, and he hums.
“I might get used to this,” he murmurs.
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I like to shower alone,” I retort. I’m already getting cold from being out of the water. Jack was a water hog. I put a quick end to showering with him.
“You thinking about another guy when I’m right here?” His eyes are dark.
“No,” I lie.
He scoffs and tips his head back, rinsing it without comment.