The third time, though, his fingers slide under my chin, forcing my eyes to his. He nods slightly, then kisses me.
It’s painfully sweet, and when he pulls back, there’s a measure of relief there, whether from finding a way to communicate, or just the physical connection, I can’t tell. I rest my cheek against his chest and spell out ‘guys’ until his fingers brush my cheek. Then I go for the longer ‘there.’
After the second repetition, he kisses me again. “How do you do that?” he whispers against my lips, like a lover’s compliment.
Spelling out ‘phone’ is harder for him to figure out, but when he does, a familiar smirk twists his lips. “Too clever,” he mutters, taking my lips again, and I can no longer tell if this is a cover for our conversation or just making out. And with my message sent, I’m not sure I care which it is.
His kisses drown me. Restrained wildness teases my tongue when I open to him, his fingers digging into my scalp and adding bite to a simple moment. By the time we’ve parked, I’m breathless, and the last thing I want to do is pull away from the heavy thunder of his heart under my palm.
Smith, though, must hate the orchestra, or just me, because the door is barely open before he’s yanking me from the car by my braid, the seatbelt slicing across my still-healing ribs as it keeps me from following my head, a pained yelp slipping from me.
Then his grip goes slack, and I rebound back into the vehicle, involuntary tears sprouting. Blinking them back, I rip off the belt, spinning, ready to do something I probably shouldn’t, only to see that Trips has beaten me to it.
Blood drips from Smith’s nose and split lip, while his fingers are twisted back unnaturally far, looking almost delicate in Trips’ hands.
Falk stands aside, letting Trips mete out his punishment, his multi-colored hazel eyes surveying the garage while ignoring his charge. I almost trust the man, his indifference testament to which side he’s picked in this battle.
Trips’ voice cuts through my shock. “You do not touch her, do you understand?”
Smith moves, but before he can get a hit in, Trips pins him against the car, the pop of Smith’s finger dislocating echoing against the concrete.
He doesn’t cry out, but his eyes lock on me, his glare telling me exactly who he’s blaming for the pain he’s in.
“Do you understand?” Trips repeats, another pop echoing.
Pointer finger and thumb. A detached part of me wonders if he’s going for the whole hand, or just the most useful fingers.
Smith curses and fights against Trips’ hold, but there’s no way he can get up with the force of Trips’ mass and anger at his back. “Fuck off,” he says.
“Not until I get your agreement.”
A cough from Falk has me catching sight of Trips’ father approaching, trailed by his wife, Jessica, his guard, and Mattie and Trevor farther back.
Trips doesn’t take the warning, instead shaking Smith. “I’m waiting.”
“Is there a problem here?” Trips’ father asks, something hungry in his gaze as he takes in Trips’ hold on the other guard.
“No, sir,” Trips responds. “Just teaching the help who’s in charge.”
Those words work like magic on his father, the hit of hunger turning swiftly into gleeful avarice. “As much as I appreciate the lesson, we do have a concert to attend,” he says.
Trips shakes Smith one last time, and understanding that no one is coming to his rescue, he grunts out, “Understood.”
Once he’s released, he cradles his damaged hand in his other one, the movement reminding me of RJ doing the same thing to Bryce last year. And instead of the fear and disgust I’d felt then, I just have a sense of satisfaction that RJ taught us the move. It’s already come in handy.
Trips’ father scoffs at the guard. “Go, get that fixed.”
Smith holds out a hand to Falk, asking for the keys. Trips’ father steps in the other man’s face.
“Find your own way, Smith. And know that’s your second strike. Taken out twice by my son and his friends—it doesn’t speak highly of your skills.”
Unable to hold the older man’s gaze, Smith glares at me. Then he passes, barely avoiding slamming into my shoulder, leaving the underground garage alone.
Trips and I share a look. We know he’s coming for me again.
And we both know it’ll be time for me to show him what I’m capable of.
I’m not sure I’m a classical music person, but it’s so nice to be away from the estate that I’m almost relaxed by the time intermission comes. Almost. Trips held my hand the whole time while his stepmom alternates between whispering with Mattieand shooting me a look that makes me think she wants to talk with me alone.
