Page 22 of The Bargain

She smirks, this time, a little sly curving of her lips, that makes my heart stutter.

“Why not?” she says. “Because a girl like me would never willingly choose a guy like you?”

Of course a girl like her would never choose a guy like me. Does she think it would hurt to admit that? Before I met her, I didn’t even think girls like her existed.

“Maybe not, but a girl like you would still kneel on the bedroom floor of a guy like me.” I smirk right back. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

And I know I’ve hit my mark because Desdemona, probably for the first time in her life, has absolutely nothing to say in reply.

If she wants to take shots at me and aim where it hurts, Desdemona has to learn I’m willing to return fire. And now that we’ve established that, I nod.

“Alright,” I tell her. “We’ll define boundaries, if you think that’ll help. But I’m not remembering a million and one rules. Let’s choose five and stick to those.”

Desdemona’s eyes narrow. “Which five?” She crosses her arms. “Are you willing to negotiate?”

She really was raised by a lawyer, huh?

“Yeah.” I huff out a laugh. “Let’s negotiate.”

8

Bloody Steak

Desdemona

Negotiating with Elias Lennox is a little like trying to play tennis against someone who’s trying to punch you in the face.

In the end, it yields the following rules:

No private meetings in his room—only the head girl study.

No touching in private, only in public.

Mutual courtesy.

Total honesty.

No falling in love.

“No falling in love?” I laugh in Elias’s face when he says it.

Negotiations are almost over—I’ve already grabbed my tennis bag and my racket. I’ve just shoved the shed door open, letting in a flood of cool night air, when he proposed this final rule.

“You can’t be serious.”

Elias shrugs. “You don’t agree it should be a rule?”

“I don’t believe it’s a necessary rule.”

“You planning on falling in love, yeah?” he says, walking up to me where I’m standing in the doorway. The distant floodlights from the tennis courts carve out the features of his face in harsh lines and embossed shadows. For a moment, he looks spectral, almost dangerous.

“You know I’m not,” I snap.

He smiles. “Then it should be an easy enough rule to follow.”

I feel a surge of something completely new: violence. I want to slap his face, kick him, shove him into a wall. To humble him, to bring him low—take something vital from him.

But this is the difference between me and him: I can control my baser instincts.