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He nods as the most perfect English gentleman I’ve ever seen. After my dad—who has a British accent but comes from a very complicated ancestry.
The only difference is that Mr. Whitby doesn’t kill people for a living like Dad.
The old man smiles faintly. “I’m sorry I can’t stay around for today’s game. I have an urgent errand to tend to.”
Oh.
“I’m sure one of the others would be thrilled to play against a bright young lady such as yourself.”
No, they won’t.
Mr. Whitby faces the other members. “Anyone?”
I hang my head. Seems no meditation or chess are on the table today. I do need to purge this energy before it consumes me, though.
This morning, I caught myself standing in front of the mirror, opening and closing my mouth. The disturbing part wasn’t looking like a haunted, mentally-damaged goldfish. It’s the fact that I haven’t done that for years.
After I stopped talking at the age of eight, I tried to speak a few years later by standing in front of the mirror and opening and closing my mouth, attempting to turn the noises I sometimes release into words, but that only made me cry and even pushed me into a panic attack.
So I stopped altogether.
I’m just under a lot of stress lately or I wouldn’t have done that today. It could also be because of the nightmares—
“I’ll play against her.”
My spine jerks and that familiar chill snakes to the bottom of my tight belly.
It can’t be.
I must be imagining things.
I don’t turn around to the source of the voice, though.
If I pretend I didn’t hear it, that means it didn’t happen. Who knows? Maybe my ears are catching up to my tongue and are also becoming dysfunctional.
A shadow stops in front of me, and this time, I do raise my head. My audible gasp nearly chokes me as my eyes clash with none other than Landon fucking King’s.
For the second time in my life, I’m speechless. No, I’m stunned. Everything about this man is unsettling and none of his charm is able to camouflage it.
It’s unfair that he always looks as if he jumped right off of a runway or out of a brand commercial. A crisp white button-down is tucked into his tailored black slacks, highlighting his sculpted waist. There’s an effortless elegance in the way he carries himself, highlighted by a sharp presence and a sardonic smirk.
Unlike a few days ago, a slight stubble covers his cutting jaw, giving him a subtle ruthless edge.
The bastard sure knows how to use the weapons that are at his disposal. Beauty, style, and infuriating charm.
He cocks his head to the side, and the same grin from the other night curls his lips. Provocative, sinful, but most importantly, dangerous.
“Landon.” Mr. Whitby clutches his shoulder in a friendly greeting. “Long time no see.”
Long time no see?Long time no fucking see?
Please don’t tell me this bastard is a member of this club.
“Frank,” Landon greets the president with the familiarity of close acquaintances, his smile subtly switching to appear welcoming. “I missed this place and the people in it, so I thought I’d pay a visit.”
Everyone, and I mean every single one in the hall, either smiles or stands up to surround the freak in a close-knit circle.
The women basically fight for his attention, and he acts like some sort of celebrity. Unlike a celebrity, however, he knows all their names and compliments one lady on her new haircut, another on her flattering glasses, and another on her cardigan. He also greets the men in a bro kind of way, and they all nod enthusiastically.
