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His question is muffled by the barrier between us, but it's obvious he's enjoying himself.
I open the door, and the immature child in me wants to make Echo heel so that he can no longer play with her. I stop myself, though. This is getting ridiculous.
I put the old King back into the dark corner of my mind that she calls home and slowly walk across the lawn. With every step that takes me closer to Wes, I force my racing pulse to slow more. Whatever happened this past week after he kissed me, after he left with Denielle, none of what I was dealing with was his fault. He doesn't owe me anything, and for once, I want to be the adult my mother raised me to be. I stop several feet away, and Echo saunters over, pressing her trim body against my leg. I lean down and scratch behind her ear, not breaking eye contact with Wes.
He is the first to speak. "Can we talk?" His earlier cockiness is gone.
I focus on the far end of the yard, collecting my thoughts. It's exactly what I was hoping to hear from him last week as I waited. Flicking my gaze back to his, I ignore the fluttery feeling in my chest. "I need to go to work."
The corners of his mouth turn down, and I want to forget everything between our kiss and this moment—pretend it never happened. That I didn't ignore him and that he didn't leave with Denielle.
Wes nods once. "What time do you get off tonight?"
He still wants to see me?
"Ten."
"I'll see you here at ten thirty." He comes closer until we're toe to toe. I have to crane my neck to see his face, but I don't step back. His gaze searches my eyes, and he lifts his hand to cup my cheek. His thumb strokes back and forth, and I lean into the caress, shivering at the sensation.
There is no way in hell I can leave this man voluntarily. The mere thought of moving on after this semester is a joke. What was I thinking?
Wes lowers his head, and for a fraction of a second, I think he'll kiss me again. Instead, his lips graze my other cheek, and he whispers, "I'm sorry."
Before I can ask for what exactly, he turns and walks out of the gate. I'm rooted in place, listening to the engine of his bike come to life and slowly fade as he leaves the neighborhood.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Fuck,fuck, fuck.
I glance at the dashboard. It's almost four in the morning, and now I'm going to get to bed even later—or earlier, however you want to see it. Of course I forget my damn cell the one time I don't have to be back for a full forty-eight hours—which is, like, every six months.
I rub my stinging eyes for the hundredth time. The smoke in the club is going to make me blind one day. As I pull into the parking lot, I notice E's car in its usual spot—that's odd. My breathing becomes erratic. I could've sworn he left before me. Only one of the security guys was there when I headed out thirty minutes ago.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel. Whatever he's doing here, maybe he won't notice me if I'm quiet.Yeah, right, my inner voice clucks at me. Even if the alarm is not triggered, the cameras that monitor every inch of the place will pick up on the movement. There is nothing that is not being recorded here. Insurance policy, as my boss calls it. Or live porn.
Shit. Why today of all days? I could already be in bed.
Something is off. My gut is never wrong. A cold feeling snakes its way across my skin, and my stomach clenches. A voice in my head begs me to turn around. I can make do without my phone for two days. Who's calling me anyway? Besides Kiwi, I have no one left. Kiwi. I promised him I would message him when I got home. He'll lose it if he doesn't hear from me. He hates my job.
I stare at the back entrance for several minutes in a failed attempt to get the sudden onslaught of terror under control. What the hell is going on? I'm not scared of E, but if he has one of his guards in there, that's a whole different story—some of them have tried to cop a feel before. My heartbeat accelerates to an almost intolerable speed, and I let one hand glide down my exposed leg down to my Doc Marten boot. It's there. Why wouldn't it be? I never go anywhere without my knives. Even when I dance, at least one is tucked into my knee-high patent-leather boots or strapped to my hip as an eccentric accessory to my thong, garter, and lace bra. Sometimes the blade is all I wear.
I'm going to be fine. In and out. It won't take more than two minutes.
I open the door and step out of my Jeep. My legs tremble for a second. After pulling a double shift in four-inch heels all day, it's a miracle I can stay upright.
I approach the back door, and with every step, the hair on my neck stands more. I glance at the camera above the entrance, the red light taunting me. I hold my breath and carefully try the knob. It turns without resistance. He's definitely here.
Pulling the door open, my ears are assaulted by Niykee Heaton's "Nexus". The club is soundproof, including all the doors. No wonder I didn't notice it until I was inside.
The strobe light is flashing in the main room. What the hell? The dressing room is to my right, but instead of being smart, grabbing my phone, and leaving, my feet carry me toward the commotion. The song gets louder, yet it is dulled by the thrashing pulse in my ears. The closer I get, the more sounds filter through the music.
At first, I think it's moaning. Maybe my boss is having an after-party at the club. Then, the words become clearer. "No. Please don't. No, no, no. P-pleeease." Whoever is begging is in tears and nearly hysterical. Between the pleas, the sobbing gets louder the farther I creep down the corridor. I've almost reached the small archway separating the stage room from the back. Dizziness is taking over my body, and I'm supporting myself with my hand pressed against the wall.
"Oh God, please stop," the female voice wails, followed by a slap and a scream.
What the fuck is going on here? It's too late to turn around. I remain hidden in the shadows of the hallway but have a full view of the stage.
Jesus Christ.
