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There’s a hint of a sly smile on his face. Between my legs, something flutters in response, and I struggle to shut it down.
“I wouldn’t suggest that. I got kicked out of one foster house for putting a fork in someone’s hand during that exact scenario.”
I expect Beck to laugh, or at least mutter about me being evil. Instead, an unhappy muscle flickers in his cheek. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“I’m not,” I reply cheerfully. “I got foster-home famous from that. No one ever tried to take my food again.”
He doesn’t laugh the way I’d hoped, but he gives me that partial smile of his—the one that says he’ll play along. “To be honest, that sounds pretty mild for you. I’m kinda surprised you’re not foster-home famous for something worse.”
I laugh, grateful once more. I love that Beck does his best not to act like I’m some object of pity, even when he’d clearly like to.
We eat in easy silence because I don’t need to impress him or win him over and he doesn’t need to impress me either. He’s okay with me exactly as I am, something I don’t think I’ve ever had with anyone else. From the outside, I’d say that sounds boring. Sitting here across from him, though, it’s simply a relief.
When the meal ends, the waitress clears our plates and he tips back in his chair.
“So,” he asks, “was it enough?”
My head tilts. “Enoughfood?”
“Enough everything.”
Am I happy enough, without dancing, drinking, drugs? Am I happy enough without the insanity? I’m silent—not because I don’t know the answer, but because I’m surprised by it.
“It was.” I meet his eye. I’m never particularly earnest, so I want him to understand that I mean what I say for once. “This has been a perfect night.”
“Good.” It’s only when he holds my gaze for an extra moment, when my heart starts to flutter like a warning, that I need to look away.
I go to the bathroom before we leave. He’s waiting in the lobby when I return, watching me cut through the bar as if I’m precious to him.
When was the last time someone worried about me? When was the last time someone watched me everywhere I went because it mattered whether or not I made it safely? Who evenwantsme to win aside from him? I start to smile just as a hand grabs my bicep.
I round on the owner of that hand, a spike of irritation surging through my chest. The guy is sitting on a barstool in an expensive suit and grinning as if this move is a harmless flirtation.
If I had a fork on me, I’d show him just how harmless I find it.
“You’ve got about five seconds to let go of my arm,” I warn him.
“Let me buy you a drink.”
This piece of shitdeservesthat fork to the hand. “I don’t want a drink. Now you have two seconds.”
“Come on,” he croons, with what I’m sure he thinks is a winning smile. “You’ve got—”
His words are cut off by a large hand wrapped around his throat.
“Touch her like that again,” Beck says, his voice quiet and lethal, “and I’ll break every fucking bone in your body.”
The violence, the suddenness of it, shocks me. But the goose bumps climbing up the back of my arms aren’t from fear and neither is that stab of want in my gut.
I’m strung too tight, an instrument that might snap with a single pluck.
Maybe it’s just been too long since I had a good pluck.
And Jesus Christ, I’d like Beck to provide one.
Beck releases him with a shove and the guy pitches backward over his seat. He’s still on the ground, shouting, when Beck begins leading me away with his hand at the small of my back.
“I wasn’t going to accept his offer,” I tell him once we get outside.
