Page 55 of Striking Range

I give him a polite nod. Yawn.

“We’ve had this talk recently,” Ash interjects. “He is searching for a serious partner, just as instructed, aren’t you, Everett?”

“Ah, yes, sir.”

“Someone preferably in your line of study,” he reminds me, tone pointed.

“Or someone older. Girls your age all want to party.” Holly giggles, as if the comment is meant to be a jab—to be funny.

The rest of the table laughs as well, the meaning of her statement going right over their heads.

I shift uncomfortably. “I actually have been seeing a girl in my department.”

Holly’s expression sours, her red lips twisting into a grimace. Her ginger hair is curled around her shoulders, drawing attention to the expression.

She is beautiful; that is true. But she’s also over half my age and married.

“Good boy.” Ash raises his Brandy in my direction.

The conversation is being steered in a different direction—a rare reprieve—and I let my body begin to untense.

But I can’t truly relax with Holly still taking her chances, glancing over at me with those curious, slightly defeated eyes. I don’t think this woman has ever been told no, and it’s killing her.

And for that, she might just kill me.

Nevertheless, I pretend not to notice, just as I do every time they come here for dinner. As the conversation drags, I think of other things: happy things, forbidden things.

Time passes at a faster rate.

As dinner and dessert finally come to a close, the men return to the den, and the women retire to the kitchen to clean up from the meal. I am finally excused, allowing me to break off and sneak up to my room.

I will strip out of my suit and then slip off to Skylar’s apartment.

Not that I mean for anything to happen once I arrive… of course not. My racing heart and jittery body have absolutely nothing to do with possibility and everything to do with being happy to leave this tense environment.

Plus, I was just reminded a million times of what is expected from me, and what I’ll have to deal with if I fail.

Sleeping with Skylar is not a part of what is expected of me. But then again, if it does happen, if it still manages to come to light despite my attempts to stop it, then whose fault is it really?

I would believe in a god, if only I could blame him. I would pray, if only he could take the blame from my guilty hands.

My fingertips tingle as I slip out of my suit jacket, fingers working the buttons of my collared shirt.

I can picture it—Skylar on his bed, curls plastered to his face with sweat, his awed gasps as he pulses against my palm. I can hear him begging me to stop, to let him last just a bit longer so that he can feel me, so he can just keep feeling me.

I could teach him so much. I could let him feel so fucking much of me. God, I could just die thinking about it.

As I’m finished unbuttoning my shirt, I hear my door open and shut softly.

“Hey—” I turn to greet who I imagine is one of my adoptive parents, but I find Holly instead. “Oh. The bathroom is across the hall, or downstairs.”

She smiles sweetly, taking a step toward me. “Let’s not play games, Everett. I want you.”

She tries to subtly push her tits out; her blue blouse is cut low, her pencil skirt hugging her tightly. I’ve seen better tits on the water girls who work for the baseball team—while they’re in uniform.

“Sorry, but I’m not interested,” I tell her—kind but firm.

I’m walking a thin line here, not quite sure what she has up her sleeve. This friendship my adoptive parents have with her husband is very important.