Ian’s eyes roll hard as he shakes his head, shifting his stance to cross his arm. “Honestly, it’s small fish, but I guess he literally has no code of ethics.” He checks over his shoulder, and I’m reminded that people in this town think Sloane, the grocery store heiress, is a novelty. “Something happened with a professor at her program. Guy’s a legend, but apparently he does thisa lot. Would wreck his reputation…could be illegal? I don’t know.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding like he didn’t just tell me Sloane did, in fact, run from something in California. “Right.”
“Chin up, Spellman. Not everyone can live up to our dreams.”
Agitation, hot and coarse, rushes down my neck. He turns to open the door but my hand flies to it before he can, holding it shut as I force my jaw to relax. “Insinuate something like that about her again,” I tell him, quietly, “and I’ll expose the fuck out of you.”
He peers up at me, amusement playing at the corner of his mouth that I’d smack away if he hadn’t just confided in me about our father. “Of course. My apologies.”
Conference season is just around the corner, so I’ve been blackballed from any shifts later than ten p.m. The money’s not nearly as good this early in the night, but I’m always grateful by the time we’re running laps at six in the morning, the warm up before the insidious drills Ben has us doing. Will was insistent as captain, constantly pushing us to beat him, but Ben’s somehow even worse—challenging us to best ourselves.
The dull ache in my shoulder, from where Grant nearly bulldozed me when he was playing offense, pulses at the thought of being up in six short hours, but the brisk wind, chafing across my face, distracts from it enough as I make my way out into the blistering Boston night. A horn honks, streetlights glint on frosted store windows, and the last of those horse lined carriages jingle in the distance.
I regret the denim jacket I opted for this morning, when the sun was out and the fluffy lining up to the collar seemed sufficient. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I trek down the sidewalk toward the lot I left my car in, only for a flash of blonde to steal my attention. Walking towards her isn’t so much a choice as it is an instinct, and I’m in her orbit within seconds, like my body’s forgotten the way she shrugged off our kiss.
She leans against the weathered brick of Boston General, head tipped back as she whooshes out a long, sustained breath of smoke. When she brings her head down to meet the lit cigarette, she goes momentarily still.
“Hi,” she says, blinking before inhaling on the thin stick deftly held between her fingers.
“Can I?” I gesture to the cigarette, watching as she drops it to the ground and crushes it with her black leather boots.
“It’s bad for you.” She crosses her arms, her nose red tipped, her eyes bleary from the wind. I grant myself a quick up and down glance, craving that kiss just at the sight of her, and bite back a smile.
“But not for you?”
She rolls her eyes, scoffing as she glances away, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
I’m nervous, all of a sudden, as I try to ask her something meaningful. “I, uh, texted you back. Don’t know if you got it.”
There’s no audible laughter, but it’s in her eyes; they dance with amusement, softly scolding me. “I did…I guess I forgot,” she says, absentmindedly, sort of bothered. “To be honest, haven’t been thinkin’ about you at all, Spellman.”
I try to hide the hurt, try to school the harsh furrow of my brows, but she notices and sighs, like this is all so tedious for her.
“What are you doin’ over here anyway? Don’t you have like…practice in the morning, or whatever?”
Something about her brutality has me disinterested in perpetuating my lies, so I don’t. She already knows about Carmen, about my mom, the apartment…most of it, anyway. “I just got off work.”
“A job?” Disbelief creases between her brows. “How do you even have time for that?”
“I don’t,” I laugh, watching when she lets her eyes fall shut for the briefest second as she leans against the wall, throat bobbing.
“You doing okay?” I look at the hospital sign, and ask it, despite her distance, despite all the downplaying and her painful avoidance. I ask because I need to know. Her mouth twists anxiously as she tilts her gaze downward. “Is Connie?—”
“She’s fine. I’m fine,” she cuts me off, tilting her head in defiance,the way she does. The way she did at the pool table, the warehouse, the party—always.Alwaysso defiant, like any attempt at vulnerability is an attack.
So, I try again.
“And if you weren’t fine…you could tell me. I’d listen, if you ever needed that.”
She shoves off the wall, tired resignation in the dip of her shoulders.
“What aboutit’s not that deepdo you not understand?” Her teeth cut against each word as she tries, and fails, to be funny or flippant. Instead, I see the fragile sadness that floats in her gaze, and I want to take her inside. Hold her while she lets it all out, because I think I could take it. Think that, with all I’ve kept inside and managed, I could help her manage it, too. She needs someone, and I scoff at her utter refusal to acknowledge it.
“You know, I wasn’t even gonna bring up the kiss, but sure, Sloane, let’s talk about why you ra—” I push against the invisible shield she’s straining to hold in place, only for her to snap.
Sloane’s eyes harden, turn harsh. “Just forget about it. I have.” It comes out on a puff of frosty air that lands like a punch, and I step back, frustrated.
“Right,” I huff out, bitterness lacing my tone. “Next time I see you, I’ll save you the trouble.” The words fall heavy in my gut, dropping like a stone in a lake.
