I don't want to go back.
I don't want to face Atlas. His disappointment. His frustration. His cold assessment that I'm not trying hard enough. That I'm being difficult. That I'm the problem. Or Margot's worried eyes. Her concern that I can't fix. Her love that I don't deserve. Her hope that I'll somehow become the person she thinks I can be. Or Bane's cold stare.
But I don't have anywhere else to go. No friends to crash with. No apartment to return to. No escape. Just the Graves estate and the room that isn't mine and the family that doesn't want me.
I start the car.
And drive back to the house that isn't mine.
Chapter 6
Zero
The girl's name is something generic. Ashley, maybe. Or Brittany. Could be Jessica. Could be Taylor. I didn't ask. Didn't care enough to commit it to memory.
I don't really care.
She's hot—tight dress, black, hugging every curve, the kind that's designed to be peeled off, legs for days, tan, toned, endless, lips that promised things the second she smiled at me across the bar. Red. Glossy. The kind that leave marks. And she's willing. That's all that matters. No games. No pretense. Just mutual desire and mutual use.
"Your place?" she purrs as I unlock my car. Her hand already on my arm. Nails painted the same red as her lips. Sharp.
"Yeah." I don't look at her. Just unlock the door. Black Audi. New. Fast. The kind of car that makes a statement.
She slides into the passenger seat, and I catch her giving my Audi an approving once-over. Her eyes widen. Impressed. Calculating. Wondering what else I have. What else I can give her. Rich boy with a nice car and a dangerous edge. I know what I look like. Dangerous. Exciting. The kind of mistake good girlsmake when they want to feel alive. I know what women want when they look at me.
I drive fast. Faster than I should. The engine roars. The speedometer climbs. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety on the straightaways. The city blurs past. Streetlights streak. She gasps but doesn't tell me to slow down.
She doesn't complain. Instead, she laughs. Breathless. Excited. Her hand finds my thigh.
By the time we pull up to the estate, she's got her hand on my thigh, sliding higher. Her palm hot even through my jeans. Her fingers bold. Squeezing.
"Jesus," she breathes, staring at the house. Her jaw drops. Her eyes go wide. The hand on my thigh stills. "You live here?"
"Yep." I kill the engine. The sudden silence is loud.
"Alone?" She sounds hopeful. Greedy. Already imagining herself in this life.
"Mostly." I get out. Close the door. Walk around to her side.
Close enough. True enough. A lie that doesn't matter.
I park and lead her inside. My hand on her lower back. Guiding. Possessive. She moves with me. The house is quiet—Dad and Margot are probably in bed by now, their wing is on the other side, far enough that they won't hear anything, and Atlas is likely in his office doing whatever control-freak shit he does until late. Probably on his third whiskey and his fifteenth spreadsheet. Probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone.
Perfect. No witnesses. No interruptions. No one to tell me to stop.
"Come on," I say, taking her hand and pulling her toward the stairs. My fingers wrap around her wrist. Not gentle. But she doesn't pull away.
She giggles. High-pitched. Breathy. The sound grates but I ignore it. Follows. Her heels click on the marble. Too loud. I don't care.
We hit the second floor, and I'm already hard, my jeans tight, uncomfortable, anticipation thrumming through me, already thinking about bending her over the couch in the fuck lounge—quick, rough, meaningless the way I like it—
I push open the door. The handle turns easily. No resistance. The room should be dark. Should smell like leather and whiskey and sex. Should be ours.
Stop.
Everything stops.
My hand freezes on the door. My breath catches.
