A hand lands on my lower back, and I jerk to one side, blinking my eyes open. “Don’t fucking touch me!” I hiss, straightening up on shaky legs. The environment comes into clear focus as I stare directly into Presley’s concerned eyes. She’s come around the counter to check on me, and I realize how badly I’ve fucked up. It’s been years since I’ve had a panic attack in front of anyone.
“Kent. Can I—”
“Drop it,” I snap, not waiting around to hear the rest of her sentence. I rush out of the bar, shoving past the bouncer and almost falling onto the sidewalk. My chest heaves, and I caution myself to get a grip before someone notices and starts recording my meltdown. The very last thing I need is something like this going viral.
A familiar guy steps out from under the shadows at the corner of the bar, his eyes asking a question. Fuck it. I’ve been steering clear of illegal substances during the week, but emergency situations call for emergency measures. I claw my hands through my hair, quickly scanning the area before gesturing for him to fall back under the awning where it’s dark and private.
“What you want, man?”
“Just weed.”
He arches a brow but says nothing, removing a baggie from his inside jacket pocket. I get it’s not my usual weekend order, but I need to show up for class in the morning looking like a human not like a druggie.
Let’s just say my less than pristine background and my rep as a womanizing bad boy did me no favors when I applied for Harvard Law. Only letting myself bleed on the pages of my personal statement salvaged it for me. Along with my parent’s substantial yearly donation. And glowing recommendations from Dan Evans, our family attorney, and the governor of Massachusetts, who happens to be a personal friend of Evans’ and a man who is an alumnus with strong current ties to the college.
I know there is an extra spotlight on my head, and I can’t afford to fuck up. It’s why I haven’t missed any classes, have turned all my assignments in on time, and why I’m focusing on studying during the week so I stay on top of my classes. Getting high during the week is a recipe for disaster, but I can’t go home and easily fall asleep after a flashback. I need something to numb my mind and take away the pain.
“Kent.” Presley’s disapproving tone echoes at my back, and I silently curse as I hand the cash to Jet.
“Later, dude.” He gives Presley a quick once-over before walking off. I shove the baggie in the pocket of my jeans and turn around to face the music.
“You forgot your books and your bag,” Presley says, handing my black backpack to me. It’s zipped up, so I’m assuming she put my stuff away. “They are all there,” she adds, as if she’s a mind reader. A muscle clenches in her jaw, and I know she saw what went down here. She won’t say anything because at least every second customer in the bar is high on the weekends, and it’s not like the owner or either of the managers don’t know Jet sells his shit on the street corner.
“Thanks.”
She spins on her heel, ready to walk off, before halting and turning back around. Her jaw relaxes. “Are you okay? It looked like you had a panic attack inside.”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “It’s none of your business,” I add in a clipped tone.
Her eyes flare with instant anger. “Damn right it isn’t, and that’s the way I intend to keep it. Good night, Mr. Kennedy.”
She storms off and all I can do is watch her retreating with the sinking knowledge I have probably fucked up any chance I had with her now.
CHAPTER FOUR
Presley
“Night, Bugger.” I swoop in, kissing his rough cheek, laughing when he pushes me away with a scowl.
“You love winding him up,” Clay says, pushing off the wall, grinning as he walks toward me. He flicks his cigarette to the ground, grinding the butt with the heel of his boot.
“I’ve got to grab the laughs where I can.” I loop my arm through his, sliding my portfolio under my other arm as he grabs my backpack, slinging it over his other shoulder. “I didn’t know you were stopping by tonight.”
“Was in the area. Thought I’d walk my favorite girl home.” That’s code for he was up to shady shit that is gonna get him killed one day. I sigh, and he presses a kiss to my temple.
“Uh-huh.” I narrow my eyes at him as we walk in the direction of my apartment. “I wish you’d go legit.”
“Pres. Quit with that shit. What the fuck else do I know?” His eyes implore me to drop the subject as he drags his free hand through his long dirty-blond hair. Usually, he wears his hair to the nape of his neck, but the strands are brushing his shoulders now, and I can’t decide if he looks like a wannabe rocker or a homeless bum.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” I explain. “I can’t lose you too. You’re my only family.”
He slams to a halt, jerking his head at two tall, skinny guys wearing hoodies, lounging on the street corner. Giving him a terse nod, they walk off. “Pres.” Clay clasps my face in his hands. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me. No motherfucker would be brave enough to take another pop at me.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Clay.” I wrap my fingers around his wrists, staring into his red-rimmed hazel eyes. “Rival gangs aren’t the only reason I could lose you.”
He places a tender kiss on my cheek, and it’s completely at odds with the whole ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe he exudes from his every pore.
Everyone knows to give Clayton Cooper a wide berth around these parts. He’s almost as notorious in the underground scene as Kent is within celebrity circles. Although he never tells me shit, and I don’t ask because the less I know, the better, I know he’s mixed up in all kinds of illegal activities. I’ve no doubt his face is plastered upon the walls of police stations up and down the state, and he’s constantly getting into street fights over control of the drug supply in the area.
