My fists clench so tight my nails dig into my palms. I push past Alyssa, past Gray, through the living room, and out thedoor. The hallway, the elevator, the lobby blur together as I move, fast and mindless, away from the scene of my humiliation.
5
Gray
I bolt after Wyatt, my combat boots pounding against marble tile as he tears through the lobby toward the underground parking. I’ve never seen the kid move so fast. Usually, he can’t be bothered to pick up his feet unless there’s alcohol at the destination. Now he’s sprinting like a missile locked on target. I call his name twice, the sound bouncing off gleaming surfaces, but he doesn’t even flinch. Just punches the down button for the parking elevator and steps inside before the doors fully open, jamming his finger against the close button.
I slide through the gap just before the doors shut. His eyes flash to mine, then away. The elevator descends in silence thick enough to choke on. Fourteen seconds of nothing but his ragged breathing and the hum of cables pulling us downward.
The doors open, and Wyatt’s off again, moving with purpose I’ve never witnessed in him before. Pain gives him speed. I’ve seen it before—adrenaline and hurt combining into a physical urgency that propels the body forward when the mind just wants to collapse. I follow, keeping pace but not crowding. The parking garage echoes with our footsteps, the sound hollowed out and lonely against concrete.
“Wyatt,” I call after him. My voice bounces back at me from the low ceiling. He doesn’t slow down.
Jeff is already waiting with the Escalade idling near the exit ramp, right where I told him to be when I texted from Alyssa’s building. Wyatt reaches the car first, yanks the rear door open with enough force to rock the whole vehicle, then throws himself inside. The door slams shut with a thunderous bang, inches from my face.
I stand there for a second, exhaling slowly through my nose. This job. This fucking job.
I round the back of the SUV, keeping my movements measured and controlled despite the frustration building in my chest. I open the door on the opposite side and slide in. Wyatt is pressed against his door like he’s trying to melt through it, to put more distance between us. His face is turned away, but I can see the rigid set of his shoulders, the white-knuckle grip he has on his phone.
“Take me home,” Wyatt tells Jeff, his voice raw. “Now.”
Jeff’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, questioning. I give him a short nod.
“Yes, Mr. Kingsley,” Jeff says, pulling out of the space.
Wyatt reaches forward and jabs the button to raise the partition between the front and back seats. The tinted glass slides up smoothly, cutting us off from Jeff. Now we’re really alone.
The car moves up the exit ramp, emerging into late afternoon sunlight that slants through the windows, highlighting the fine tremor in Wyatt’s hands. He still won’t look at me. The silence stretches like a tripwire between us, just waiting for someone to make a wrong move.
“Wyatt—”
“Shut up.” His voice is like gravel. “Just shut the fuck up.”
I inhale slowly, counting backward from ten. “We should talk about what happened.”
“Talk? Now you want to talk?” He whips his head around, eyes bright with anger. “This is your fucking fault.”
“My fault? How exactly—”
“If you hadn’t dragged me out of the club like some kind of—of criminal, I wouldn’t have left them alone together. None of this would have happened!”
The accusation is so absurd I almost laugh. “You think they just spontaneously decided to fuck each other because you weren’t there to chaperone?”
“You embarrassed me!” His voice cracks. “In front of the entire club. You carried me out like a child, and now my girlfriend—my best friend—”
“Your girlfriend and your best friend were already fucking,” I say flatly. “Last night had nothing to do with it.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Look at them, Wyatt. Look at how comfortable they were. You think that was their first time?”
He turns away again, staring out the window as buildings slide past. His reflection in the glass looks vulnerable in a way I haven’t seen before. It almost makes me feel sorry for him. Almost.
“It’s all your fault,” he says again, quieter now. “Ever since my dad hired you, everything’s gone to shit. Following me around, reporting back every little thing I do, treating me like I’m some fucking child who can’t take care of himself.”
“And what have you done to prove otherwise?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His head snaps back around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
