I shift, hooking my ankle over my knee, and take my phone out to distract from the conversation. Willing myself to put some distance between the intensity of the inappropriate jealousy swimming in my veins, I unlock the screen and turn away from the blonde.
Several missed calls litter my notifications—three from Callie, one from my father, and a dozen from my producer Simon, who I’m supposed to meet when we fly to LA next week.
I don’t bother listening to any of the voice mails, knowing they all probably say the same things. Demands of my whereabouts, as if they aren’t tracking my every move.
Like I haven’t noticed my bodyguard, Jason, lurking at every corner, watching from a distance, only ever giving me the illusion of freedom.
My fingers slip beneath the band of my watch, and I press down as I open my texts. There are three from Liam, detailing the paperwork of my donation and the subsequent rage of my father, who’d been contacted as soon as the funds transferred.
Liam: You have maybe an hour. Hour and a half, tops. Finish getting your dick wet so we can go back to the apartment before your dad murders me.
I don’t bother correcting him as I send a thumbs-up emoji and put my phone back in my jacket. Let him think what he wants—maybe if my father believes I gave the money away for pussy, he’ll back off.
That’s his MO, after all.
Liam: The Internet knows you left the gala. Just FYI. Be on the lookout.
“No. If you come back right now, I swear I won’t forgive you. I’m fine.” The girl turns slightly, meeting my gaze. She exhales, her breath wisping like smoke above her head. “Yes, I promise. Jesus. Okay, I’ll talk to you when we’re back at the hotel.”
Something heavy pulls at my chest, scraping like thorns at the tendons there. The thought of the night ending already makes my entire body sag, buckling beneath the weight of a missed opportunity.
Instead of dragging her up the street, I should’ve been grilling her all this time. Finding out what makes her her.
Why the blue hues in her eyes seem to dim when she’s lost in her thoughts but brighten when they’re engaged with mine.
I clear my throat, and she finally walks back over, shoving her phone into her purse. Forcing nonchalance, I watch as she settles back onto the bench, stuffing a large bite of the bagel into her mouth.
“Boyfriend?” I ask, apprehension notching along my throat.
She snorts. Shakes her head. “Brother.”
“Ah.” I nod, relief splashing over me like a bucket of ice water. My heart stutters as I continue. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Chewing, she steals a glance at me from the corner of her eye. “I’m not sure I’m really the dating type.”
“No?”
She shrugs. “I know that probably seems crazy, what with how much you know about me.”
“Well, I know you’re not a hooker, and that your taste in bagels is subpar, at best.” I inch toward her, the heat from her body reaching out with invisible fingertips. “You just don’t really strike me as the love them and leave them type, is all.”
“Maybe I’m full of surprises.”
“Yeah?”
Driven by some powerful, transparent force, my hand reaches out slowly, once again tangling in her hair. A light shiver skates along her spine, and I trace it with the tip of one finger, arousal collecting in my gut and spurring me on.
She doesn’t ask me to stop or lean away.
“Maybe you’re more attracted to danger than you’ve let on? You did, after all, come out tonight with a complete stranger.”
“Under duress.”
My fingers travel higher, twisting in the strands at the base of her neck. The urge to tug back is strong, but I resist as her pink lips part slightly, not wanting to scare her off.
“Besides…” she breathes, dropping the rest of the bagel into her lap, eyes tilting toward the night sky. “Who says I’m not dangerous?”
Leaning forward, I run my nose along her hairline, inhaling that sweet peppermint perfume. “I have no doubt that you are.”
A beat passes, neither of us moving.
No breaths escape as time seems to slow down, and then halt altogether.
My dick twitches, intoxicated by this girl, but then she’s springing to her feet and whirling on me, throwing her bagel into the trash over her shoulder.
When she grabs my arm and hauls me up, I let her, unsure of what’s happening, except that a manic smile stretches across her face in an almost blinding manner.
It’s brighter than the city lights and the stars, and for some reason, I find myself not wanting to let it disappear just yet.
It’s the warmest expression she’s had all night.
So when she drags me back down the ramp, exiting the park the way we came, I follow.
8
Growing up, I admired my brother.
Kind of worshiped him, as pathetic as that sounds.
Because while life had not been kind to him, he never seemed to let adversity keep him down. It didn’t matter that our mother used him, letting her friends abuse him as payment for the drugs her body craved, or that she treated him as an emotional scapegoat even after sending him to live permanently with our aunt Dottie.
On the outside, Boyd kept his cool. Waited things out and went on to become rich and powerful.
For a long time, I thought that made him strong. He was invincible to me, and I looked forward to the sparse moments when he’d stop by mine and our mom’s little trailer to give me money.
He’d barge into the shoebox I called a bedroom and make small talk, before cutting a check or stuffing cash in my backpack, where our mother wouldn’t find it.
God forbid she even pretend to be interested in my schooling.
I’d spend most of that time studying the colorful artwork spanning Boyd’s skin, though with the suits he wears, I was never able to get a very good look at them. A skull on one hand, dice on the other.
A canvas of experience, he’d once called them. Said every single piece had some modicum of meaning to it, and that was the only reason he didn’t regret getting them.
His body told a story.
One he’d created from scratch to erase any evidence of the life he’d been written into.
That sentiment struck a chord, though he’s always been strictly anti-tattoo when it comes to me. If he even knew I was standing in a shitty parlor beside an inked rock star, waiting for them to gather paperwork, Boyd would certainly have a coronary on his way to the airport.
The thought of his rage is almost enough to quell my spontaneity.
Instead, I steal a look at the man beside me, watching as he smooths his thumb over the bulky watch on his wrist. He’s discarded his hat and glasses, and his eyebrows are drawn in.
Anxiety flares up between my ribs at the thought that I’m keeping him from something.
Or someone.
“We don’t have to do this.”
Aiden’s eyes slide to mine, and my trepidation melts like butter when our gazes lock. Mine twitches, itching to focus elsewhere, but I’m trapped.
“Having second thoughts? It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as your brain makes you think.”
“It’s not that,” I say, although now it is a little. A loud buzz splits the air, coming from one of the little cubicles behind the receptionist’s desk, and it makes my teeth chatter.