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He waits and he pounces.
Although since this is a bar and it’s a Saturday night, I can’t call this hallway lonely. There are people coming and going. I even have to step aside to let some other girl into the bathroom.
So not lonely.
But still dangerous because I have a feeling that he doesn’t care if there are witnesses present.
He will still pounce.
Damn it.
“Nice dress,” he drawls, his eyes going up and down my body.
I fist my hands and press my body into the wall so as to stop the trembling that overcomes my body at his voice.
Low and deep.
Rough like sandpaper.
“What do you want?” I ask, trying to sound all confident and calm.
His eyes come back to my face. “It’s pretty.”
Of course he completely ignores my question.
Because again, that’s what he does.
He ignores things and people and feelings and does what he wants to do.
“Pretty,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding his head slowly. “Blue suits you.”
Okay, I don’t have time for this.
Shaking my head, I ask again, “What do you want?”
Something dark flashes in his eyes and he cocks his head to the side. “I want you to say thank you.”
“What?”
“It was a compliment.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff.
He frowns slightly. “What, you don’t think so?”
“No.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because it’s you.”
“And?”
“And you never give anyone compliments.”
His lips twitch as if on the verge of a smile. Which can’t be true.
If anything, they’re going to be on the verge of a smirk.
Because this guy hardly ever smiles.
He smirks though.
All arrogantly and condescendingly.
Because he thinks he’s better than everyone.
“I’m pretty sure I do,” he replies.
“Well okay, so let me rephrase,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “You never give compliments to me.”
And there it is: his smirk.
All dark and in its glory.
“Ah,” he drawls again. “I hear hurt feelings.”
“There are no –”
“Well, allow me to rectify that.”
“You don’t –”
Again, he speaks over me. “You look pretty in blue,” a pause, “Echo.”
I clench my teeth. At the way he says my name.
Like he owns it.
Like my name belongs to him. Like he’s going to keep it and say it whenever and however he wants.
God, I hate him.
He runs his eyes up and down my body again as he murmurs, “Very pretty.”
Steeling my spine, I go, “What do you want, Reign? Why are you here?”
Now it’s his turn to clench his teeth, his jaw. Narrow his eyes slightly, even.
As if me calling his name causes the same effect in him.
Which I know is ridiculous.
I don’t say his name the way he does mine. I will never say his name like he does mine.
I don’t even like his name, and if I had my way, I’d never say it.
I’d never even look at him.
At his dark hair and bronzed skin.
But he recovers quickly and his features – which have always been so sharp and defined, so masculine – go all relaxed and nonchalant.
“To say hi.” I open my mouth to say something but he goes on, “I mean, how long has it been, huh? Since we saw each other.”
“Two years,” I say. Then, “Not long enough though.”
He chuckles. “And you were sitting out there, surrounded by all your friends. We didn’t get a chance to talk, let alone catch up.”
I was sitting out there, surrounded by my friends like he said. And it was on purpose.
To protect me from this guy.
I came to the bar with all my friends from St. Mary’s and their boyfriends. Again, this was Poe’s idea. I needed all the moral support, hence the girls. And we needed entry into this bar, hence their boyfriends who know people here. But when we realized that the guys from our group know the guys from his group, my friends decided to literally surround me and barricade me against him.
Which means that I never should’ve left that cozy little nook.
Stupid Echo.
“If I wanted to talk to you, I would have,” I tell him.
“Now that wasn’t very nice, was it?” he says, shaking his head slightly. “I give you a compliment and you break my heart.”
“You don’t have a heart.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. You’re heartless.”
Oh God, he is.
He has been ever since I’ve known him.
Which is practically all my life.
At my words, he takes one hand out of his pocket and puts it on his chest. On the left side of it. He splays his fingers wide and with sparkling eyes, he says, “Well, whatever it is, it’s racing right now.”
I swallow at his gesture.
I don’t know why.
It makes my throat go dry. His large, dusky hand on his sculpted chest.
“I hope it’s racing fast enough for a heart attack,” I retort.
He chuckles again. “I wouldn’t rule it out, no. Especially since I’m seeing you after so long.”
“Are you –”
“Because I wasn’t lying, Echo. You are pretty.” Then, in a grave voice, the kind I’ve never really heard from him before, he says, “You are fucking breathtaking.”
