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“You’re too arrogant to think you can hurt me without being crippled in return, Nic. Remember, I dish out toys, but I’m not one of them.” I wipe the liquid from my face, not even caring about my ruined tailored suit.
Without bothering to excuse myself, I stand up and trail after Aspen.
She might not have been as forthcoming about it as I’d hoped she’d be, but she gave me the opening I was looking for.
The opening that means she not only cares, but her control might as well be hanging by a thread.
Because no matter how much she tried to hide it, I saw it just now.
Tears shone in her eyes.
Might have been out of frustration or anger, but it’s enough ammo for me to use.
This time, she’ll learn the hard way that she’s fucking mine and there’s no fighting it.
21
ASPEN
I’m surprised I make it out of the club and into the parking lot without bombing the whole place terrorist-style just to broadcast the chaos that’s snapping its fingers against my throat.
My heels make a screeching sound on the asphalt and I turn around. You know what? I should go back in there and crush a whole bottle against Kingsley’s thick skull. A mere glass of alcohol is nothing in the grand scheme of things.
Releasing a long breath, I half abandon the idea and storm to my car. It’s only a half abandon because fuck it. The urge to break something—preferably Kingsley’s head and dick—is too much of a temptation to completely let go.
But on the other gloomy end, I refuse to be perceived as emotional, messy.
Weak.
My fingers shake around the car key and I wipe the angry tears that have gathered in my eyes. I’m not going to cry because of that bastard.
Not in this lifetime, Satan.
Dumping my weight against the car, I inhale deep breaths, summoning every inch of the self-control I gained through surviving in the streets, studying my ass off, and working doubly as hard as my male counterparts in order to be recognized in their midst.
Images of Kingsley’s hands around that girl’s waist assault my head and I close my eyes.
Stop thinking about jerks. Stop making it personal. It’s nothing.
We’re nothing.
Moisture gathers in my lids and no amount of critical, methodical thinking is able to stop the tear that slides down my cheek and into my mouth.
Something shakes me and I startle when I realize it’s my phone.
Releasing a breath, I yank it out, slightly thankful for the distraction.
The text that lights up the screen puts my world on pause for a second.
Gwyneth:I just made these. Do you want some?
Attached is an Instagram-like picture of colorful cupcakes with beautiful rainbow toppings.
Gwyneth:Oh, Nate just said you don’t really like sweet things. That’s okay, I guess. I just made too many, so I thought I’d share. I’d take them to Dad, but he’s not really talking to me.
My fingers practically fly on the screen.
Me:I would love to have some. If you don’t mind.
