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The events surrounding his death aren’t important anymore. He was a bastardly man who did disgusting things. In the end, we all lied to cover it up because he was stilltheSebastian Saint and there is no doubt The Elders would inflict punishment on me for what I did. Even in death, he would win.
But what has me so fucked up is not the lost life, it’s the lack of empathy I feel about what I did. Shouldn’t I be sad? Shouldn’t I have grieved? Sure, loud noises startle me. I’m constantly on edge, but that’s the trauma from that night. In my heart of hearts, I’m not sorry at all.
A good amount of liquid—two shots’ worth at least—goes down, and it isn’t until my esophagus catches fire that I exhale the pent-up air in my lungs.
Then it hits me. The taste. The smell. The nausea. I choke it all down, ignoring the urge to vomit on Maddox’s sleek Neiman Marcus boots.
My reflexes kick into high gear and when I gag, Maddox cranes his neck warily and steps two feet to the right. Out of nowhere, Ridge appears. His hand lands on my waist and he leads me briskly away from Maddox to the end of the hall. I clap my hand over my mouth, fighting like hell to keep down what wants to come up.
There’s a line of people outside the bathroom door, but Ridge shoves the guy in the front aside and leads me in when a girl walks out.
I don’t pay Ridge any attention; I don't even bother to look and see if he shut the door before I slide across the floor to the toilet. I drop to my knees, hold my hair to one side, and everything I drank tonight comes out in heaps.
My stomach cramps up and when there's nothing left to expel, I drop backward onto my ass with my back pressed to the wall. My eyes close and I rest my head back against it. It’s silent. I can’t even hear Ridge breathing, but I know he’s there—he’s always there.
Hello, consequences, my old friend. If only you’d show your face and punish me for the life I had to end. Maybe then I’d feel remorse or even empathy. Until then I’ll hide in the darkness of my insanity.
The sound of footsteps coming toward me has my eyes bolting open. I watch his black boots—they’re old and worn, unlike Maddox’s. In fact, everything about the two of them screams polar opposites. From their social skills to their choice of clothing, right down to their demeanors. Maddox has shown me nothing but respect in the ten minutes we’ve actually engaged. Whereas Ridge has never said a single word to me. But for some reason, I’m more intrigued by the quiet one.
My gaze slides up Ridge’s holey black denim jeans, to his zipped leather jacket, finally landing on his face. His eyes are soft and in no way threatening. His lips are rolled in as if he’s focused solely on me.
“Just had too much to drink,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t say anything as he comes closer and closer, until the toe of his boot is touching the three-inch heel of my black suede pumps.
His legs bend and he crouches down, our eyes now level. His hands hang together between his legs, fingers entwined.
Someone pounds on the door and I jolt, scooting back farther until my spine is snug against the wall.
Ridge tilts his head slightly to the left and raises his hand. When he reaches out with an open palm, I elevate my neck, but he doesn’t retreat. The backs of his fingers graze gently across my cheek and I blink rapidly, unsure what to say or do.
I watch him intently, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.
“What…what are you doing?” I ask him, doubtful, but curious, if I’ll get an answer.
He leans closer, invading my personal space, and when his nose brushes against mine, I turn my head out of fear he’s going to try and kiss me. Burying his nose in the side of my head, he draws in a deep breath, cupping my cheek in his hand.
“Ridge…”
There's more pounding on the door, but the dire need of others to occupy this space doesn’t seem to faze him one bit.
Moments of silence pass and this is getting more and more uncomfortable. His eyes haven’t left mine except for the sliver of a second when he inhaled my scent, which was straight up weird.
Shooting a thumb toward the door, I whisper, “I should get back to the party. I’m sure my friends are wondering where I am.” My hands drop to the cold floor, but when I attempt to push myself up, I'm halted by Ridge's hand aggressively pushing down on my shoulder. He holds me in place and my heart rate speeds up.
I gulp, now thinking I pegged him all wrong. Maybe Ridge isn’t one of the good ones. I mean, he has been stalking me since I stepped foot on BCU grounds.
“What are you doing?”
More silence, and the longer it drags out, the angrier I get. I push his hand away, but it flies right to my leg, brushing up my inner thigh with the same pressure he had on my shoulder.
“I’m not scared of you.” I say the words, hoping to believe them myself.
I grab his hand that’s inked in a black mess of tattoos. Different symbols on each finger and a triangular design with an eyeball in the center on the dorsal of his hand. Curiosity has me wondering what else is marked on him, and what they symbolize. I’ve always been fascinated by tattoos and often wonder what the meaning behind them is. Surrounding the tattoos, there are scars on some of his fingers that look like burn marks and a longer scar that extends from his thumb to his wrist. If I had to guess, that one involved stitches. I turn his hand over, noticing another scar that runs diagonally across his wrist. My heart drops into my stomach and I grab his other hand, searching for the same mark. Sure enough, it’s there.
What drove him to do that?
With his shoulders drawn back, Ridge’s nostrils flare, and his breaths come rapidly—as if my touch, or this revelation of the pain he’s inflicted on himself—has ignited something inside him. I steal a glance between his legs, noticing a massive bulge in his pants.
