Damien gives one last, unholy stare, then chuckles, his mask fitting back into place. He grabs his phone and disconnects, ignoring me while he taps out messages, checks his socials, takes a selfie for a new post.
Five minutes before the bell, he yawns, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt pulls free of his belt.
“Thanks for the tutoring.” His tone is mocking. “It was a real lifesaver.”
I tap the pages level on the desk and slide them over. Damien remains slouching low in his seat, shirt untucked, idly rubbing his stomach. The fabric lifts higher, the blurry ridges and shadows of darkly tanned abs showing under the white cotton.I tilt my head, seeking the null point in my vision where the nystagmus stills for a clearer view.
“Are you sure you won’t accept my earlier offer?” His voice is full of the same smug satisfaction as last night.
My gaze snaps to his face, caught out, then I abruptly stand, and the distance turns his eyes into dark smudges.
“Which? Sex slave or Craig’s murder?” I joke, fighting not to blush.
Damien’s body tenses into that of a hungry predator, clueing me into my mistake.
I freeze.
Then the bell shrieks and I launch myself through the doorway and into the flow of students, pushing forward, bumping them, stumbling, tripping over their moving feet in my eagerness to escape.
Maybe he didn’t notice.
But Damien’s low laugh carries above the stampede. A promise of retribution for a name I never meant to say out loud.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAMIEN
I meetCaylon at his house after I’m done with school. His daughter is with him, held back from kindergarten because she’s feeling ill. While we speak, she’s curled in his lap, issuing occasional demands in a grouchy voice.
It seems a miserable position to me, but even with his obvious exhaustion, he appears tousled and happy.
He’s also being deliberately evasive. If he weren’t the best at what he does, I’d be knocking on someone else’s door right now.
“Can’t you just access the school roll from the start of the year?”
“Sure,” he answers, beaming a brilliant smile at his daughter. “Daddy’ll just look up the school roll, won’t he precious? That’s a far better plan than Damien asking a classmate, isn’t it?”
When he gives her a tickle, she laughs until it turns into a coughing fit.
“You’re a hacker. So, hack.”
“I’m not risking myself for a surname. It’s not a secret codex.” His glance looks equal parts curious and exasperated. “What’s the problem with asking?”
“Because if word gets back to Chelsea, she’ll be livid.” He turns away but not before I catch his rolling eyes. “If I fuck this deal for—”
“Language!” He covers his daughter’s ears.
“If the merger falls through because of me, I’ll be paying you with recycled bottlecaps.”
“Fair enough. I’ll troll through her socials, then. Someone will know. Give me a few days.”
A few days? I jump up, pacing the small cell of a room, cracking my neck from side to side.
The urgency doesn’t make any sense. Then again, nothing involving Ophelia does. My eyes are still wretched from the pepper spray; I should be taking retribution, not plotting a campaign against some teenage nobody who put his hands on her without permission.
But finding the pills has me wound so tight I can barely breathe.
I’ve watched things die before but never a person, and it’s not like my father would bail me out of a murder charge as things stand right now.
