Oh, I will.
NINE
“The posters will be setup in the foyer, and we’ll have presentations in Room 112,” Annika says, looking up from her notes with her usual wide smile, her enthusiasm radiating around the table like the spirit of academia itself is going to pat her on the head and call her a prodigy.
I just barely contain my eye roll as the rest of the physics faculty hums their agreement and tosses her praise for being soorganizedand fucking perky about this student conference. Anyone can book a fucking room. Do we really need a circle jerk around the table for it?
“That sounds wonderful, Annika,” Omar says, the department head’s gentle smile never faltering. “So our undergraduate honours students will present in the morning, and we’ll have graduate students in the afternoon.” He scans everyone sitting around the table. “Dana, Lynn, Russell—your students have already submitted their titles…” Then his gaze lands on me. “Is Spencer presenting?”
Redundant fucking question, since it’s mandatory.
But I bite my tongue. “Yes,” I say.
Annika glances down at her notes, then looks up at me expectantly. “He hasn’t submitted his title yet.”
I nod once. “Considering the deadline is this afternoon, I think we’ll be ok.”
Her gaze flits to Omar, who nods slowly.
“He needs to have it in by the end of the day,” he says.
“He can tell time,” I say, fully aware I’m speaking to my department head, but too annoyed to care. “We didn’t make it this far without an understanding of deadlines.”
Luckily, Omar just shoots me a warning look, but I’m sure I’ll hear about this later. He drops his gaze back to his notes and keeps steering this meeting through its unnecessary paces, while I die a little more inside… which I didn’t think was possible at this point. The weed I smoked before walking in here is doing jack shit to help me get through this, and all I can think about is how fast I can get a glass of something that burns on the way down.
As he drones on about reallocating TA hours, movement through the glass wall of the conference room snags my attention. I look up, and my eyes land on leather and tattoos.
He moves like he owns the hallway, easy and unhurried, like he has nowhere better to be, and this building exists just for him to pass through it. His eyes lock on me through the glass wall as he drops onto the bench outside the room, arms stretched across the back like he’s claimed his throne.
The table suddenly goes quiet as nervous glances flick towards the glass, then to me.
Russell leans in, lowering his voice as if the biker could hear him. “Are you ok, Cade? Do you… need help?”
I stare back at him, then sweep my gaze across the table. They all look worried and nervous as their eyes dart between me and the Basin Kings’ Vice President, like I’m being stalked by a predator.
Maybe I am.
“Help with what, Russell?” I ask. “Making it through the rest of this meeting? Probably.” Then I meet Omar’s gaze, and I don’t even feel bad about that shot. He’s staring at me like he expects me to suddenly combust under the weight of a biker’s attention. I wave a hand at him to continue, so we can finally get this meeting over with.
He hesitates as his gaze flicks to the man sitting in the hallway like a loaded gun… calm, still, and dangerous. But then he drops his eyes back to his agenda and clears his throat. “Departmental travel reimbursements…”
But even through all of this, those eyes never move. Not even once.
That dark, unblinking stare stays locked on me, and I can’t ignore the tingle that runs up my spine, like he’s flipped some hidden switch.
Omar continues to drone on about useless shit, but my attention now belongs to the man watching me through the glass. And from this distance, I can really look at him.
The tattoos that crawl up his neck and coil around his knuckles in thick lines of ink speak more of power than art. They mirror the quiet control in the way he’s sprawled out now—composed and confident, and a man with nothing to prove, even with every eye on him. There’s a subtle but unmistakable flicker of amusement in his gaze, and a quiet challenge in the way he holds himself, completely unbothered by the tension he’s stirring through the glass.
He looks like something I should fear. Like everyone else at this table does.
But I don’t fear him.
I welcome it. Ineedit.
And the longer he watches me, like he’s deciding how best to ruin me… the more I want to let him. And the more I want to get the fuck out of this meeting.
“We’ll meet again next month before finals,” Omar says, finally wrapping up. “And I’ll see you all Tuesday at the conference.”
