It’s only one word, spoken quiet and soft, but it makes my heart twist. There isn’t a trace of bitterness in it. This is a man who came to terms with the decision before I even realized he was making it.
Instead, I reach beneath the table and cover his hand with mine, hoping it’s a distraction from the football players casting him deep, betrayed frowns. “You didn’t have to do that tonight,” I say, leaning in close.
He answers with a shrug, picking up his glass of champagne. “We’re here to build an alibi. Everyone will remember me being here now.” He flips his hand, pressing our palms together, and squeezes. “And you, too.”
When I think about it like that, it’s genius.
“How long do we need to stay?”
The words I whisper into Killian’s ear might feel rude, except I can tell he’s just as anxious as I am. President Whittmore has been slow to wrap this up, talking for twenty minutes about the outstanding achievements of the school’s athletes, a clear attempt to drum up boosters and donations from alumni. I’ve tried my hardest to relax and not think about what Dimitri and Tristian have been doing all night—Killian’s speech had certainly been a distraction—but now my neck is itchy and tense, and my palm feels clammy against his.
“I’m waiting for their text,” Killian says, releasing my hand to rest his arm on the back of my chair. He keeps his voice a hushed whisper, leaning in to breathe it against the shell of my ear. “They’re fine. You know that, right? In and out. Nothing they can’t handle.”
I turn my head, so close to catching his lips with my own. “You act like they’re professional cat burglars or something.”
“They may as well be,” he says, eyes searching mine. If there was any ambiguity about what we are to one another, it will be wiped clean when he dips down, brushing his mouth against mine. “Rath’s been picking locks since he was seven. His brother Alessio taught him. And Tristian? You know what a nosy bastard he is. He started breaking into the Vice Principal’s office in middle school, reviewing security tapes, changing grades on the servers.” He tucks his fingers under the back of my dress. “That doesn’t even get into the fires. He was into all that shit before he even met me.”
He’s playing it cool, but I know he’s worried. His knee keeps bouncing under the table and he’s checked his phone a million times. I’ve had to keep our clasped hands on his knee for the past half hour just to keep the silverware from bouncing off the surface. “I’d feel better if I was driving the getaway car.”
“Well, I feel better having you by my side.”
Changing the subject, I give his thigh a subtle rub. “You deserve that award you hid under the table.”
“Probably.” He shrugs, looking away from my mouth. “It’s just going to make my retirement that much more complicated. Marcus looks like I just stabbed his puppy.”
It’s not as bad as all that, but he keeps shooting Killian these small, sullen looks. It’s a big deal, and one day, when we’ve both gained some distance from that tension sitting in his spine whenever he sees the award, I want to ask him about it. Football, his anger, how he knows he doesn’t need it anymore, and if I’m the person who’s helped him realize it. But for now, there’s a big picture, because South Side is calling.
Literally.
Our phones vibrate at the same time, but I don’t bother pulling mine out, watching as he thumbs the text open.
Rath: 237
“What does that mean?” I ask, shifting nervously.
But the relief is clear in Killian’s eyes as he tucks the phone back into his pocket. “It’s the city penal code for ‘mayhem’。 If you recall, Nick’s got it tattooed down his temple because he’s got all the class of a vandalized bathroom stall.” He meets my gaze, fingertips skating down my shoulder. “It means it’s done.”
I’d like to say all the tension drains from my body, but I’m not as stupid as all that. This is just the beginning.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He bends and grabs the award before standing up. I follow, offering Marcus and the others a small parting smile, trying to play it just as cool and charming as Tristian might. But I’m so eager to get out of here that it’s a struggle not to sprint toward the exit.
Whittmore’s voice follows us out the ballroom door, only silencing when we’re in the lobby. That’s short-lived, though. A group of reporters right outside the front spots us. A chorus of ‘Mr. Payne!’ and ‘Killer!’ accosts us.