Page 42 of Blacklist

“Communication is the future, Lucky.”

If looks could kill, Adair MacLaine would be facing murder charges by morning. I’m the only person whoever called her that. Now even I don’t get that privilege.

“How can you even afford—” She stops mid-sentence. She didn’t mean to voice this question out loud.

“Of course, that’s what you’re wondering. How did I become wealthier than you?” I circle around her. She might be on her home turf, but I’m the one in charge. “How did Sterling Ford, the boy who couldn’t compete with your trust fund, buy into your father’s company? Isn’t that what you really want to know?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her silence echoes in the empty space around us, louder than anything she can say. In the end, she whispers, “I never asked you to compete with the trust fund.”

“No, you didn’t.” That’s the problem. She never even gave us a chance.

“Is that what this is about? You have a lot of nerve acting like this is my fault.”

“Oh, it is.” I take a step closer, savoring how she backs away. It feels so good that I continue herding her, until she’s flattened against the wall. There’s no where for her to run. No escape. Leaning closer, I press the palms of my hands to the wall, caging her to the spot. I want to know her attention on me is absolute. “You had a choice to make. Did you make the right one, Adair?”

She chokes on her denial. “I never—”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s unbecoming to make a bed you refuse to lie in?” She still wears the same perfume, notes of magnolia—honey-sweet but hiding a subtle tartness—bloom in my nostrils, awakening memories I’d locked away.

“I’m not interested in being a lady,” she whispers.

I’m close enough to kiss her. Her body strains toward mine despite her pretense that she hates me as much as I hate her. There’d be no fight if I unbuttoned her jeans and slid a hand down her panties. My hand drops to her hip, on board with this plan. Adair stills in expectation, not moving to stop me. I slide the tip of my index finger along her waistband.

“That’s probably wise,” I say. “You were never any good at it.” My head angles, drawn to the curve of her neck. I pause before my lips touch her skin, lingering in the temptation of her scent, feeling the heat of her this close to me. For a moment, her green eyes search mine looking for the answer to some unknown question.

“Why did you come back?” It’s no longer an accusation on her tongue.

I know what she wants to hear.

I hate that it’s the truth.

“For you.”

14

Sterling

The Past

This isn’t what I imagined when Cyrus invited me to an off-campus house party. When he drove toward Adair’s neighborhood, I had realized this wasn’t going to be some college gathering. The gated entrance is open when we arrive, thrown wide to welcome us to the Garden of Eden. Ferns and palms clutter the grounds, their midnight-green shadows cast by precisely placed lights, and lush trees line the path. It empties into a small parking lot, already half-full of luxury vehicles. Cyrus shows me inside, stopping for hugs and high fives every few feet. He introduces me to everyone who stops us, but I’m too overwhelmed by the size of the place to remember any of them.

“Let’s grab a drink,” he suggests, nodding past the packed living room that’s so full I can’t even see furniture.

I glance over my shoulder at the crowded kitchen that looks like it’s straight out of Architectural Digest. The stale smell of spilled beer and the clashing colognes from overheated bodies doesn’t match the polished quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances. The crowd swallows Cyrus and I’m left searching for his blond head among the other party-goers. Behind me, a grunt catches my attention. I shift to see two guys hauling a keg into the middle of the room. Perspiration drips down its aluminum sides as some genius tries to tap it and fails.

“Let me.” I shove the idiot away before he winds up wasting half the beer. A few twists and turns and it’s ready to go.

“Thanks!” Said idiot fills a Solo cup and hands it to me.

I’m guessing the first beer at a party is an auspicious offering in these parts, so I don’t refuse. Instead, I deliver it to Cyrus.

“Very impressive.” He sizes me up for the hundredth time since I met him on my first day. I can never quite tell what he thinks of me. I don’t fit with his usual crowd, but he keeps inviting me to these things anyway. “We have to keep you around. Where’s yours?”

I guess I’ve proven myself useful again. “Not my thing.”

Cyrus arches an eyebrow like he can’t make sense of this answer but doesn’t press me on it. A second passes before his face splits into a grin. “You can DD then.”

“That’s why I’m here.” I force a smile that I’m guessing comes off as a grimace. He doesn’t notice. I’d said no when he first asked, agreeing only after he promised it wasn’t another frat thing. Then he’d used the magic word: Adair. She’s going to be here along with the rest of his group. It’s been a month since her mother’s funeral. Maybe she’s pulled her head out of her ass by now. I suspect not, considering Cyrus told me she dropped out of Valmont. It’s not like she needs or even deserves my pity. She’s been a bitch at every opportunity—a bitch who can’t take it when I dish out exactly what she’s been serving. But I got a front row seat to the shitshow she calls her friends the last time I saw her. I doubt any of them have been checking up on her. Not genuinely, at least.