His gaze shifts to the top of a close-by building. There are a few of them scattered along the grounds. One is a hangar, the other is an FBO, AKA a “fixed-base operator”, which basically functioned as a private terminal for people who used to fly in until The Drift went to shit and Harden Heights became the hoity-toity place to be. “We have cameras everywhere,” Jagger explains. “If someone takes something that doesn’t belong to them, we follow up with them.”
“And?”
“And, it only took one or two incidents before word got around about the consequences of breaking our rules.” Moving closer, he blocks me in with his body even more. His grip tightens on the top of the open car door and the frame on the opposite side. The combination leaves me pinned and trapped and slightly turned on. “I like your hoodie.”
My hoodie? Oh. Right. Because I actually listened to his request and wore what he told me.
Who am I, and what have I done with Violet Reeves?
Clearing my throat, I look down at the thick fabric swallowing me whole before peeking up at him again. “Oh, you do, huh?”
“Mm-hmm.” His eyes dip to my mouth. “Fuck, this is even more difficult than I planned.”
“What’s difficult?”
“Keeping my hands to myself.”
Oh.
I lick my bottom lip, unsure what to say. It’s not like I’ve found myself in a lot of these situations, especially with a guy who looks like Jagger Harden. Is he only here because he likes the chase? It wouldn’t surprise me, but even then. Is it so wrong? I’m an adult. I’m allowed to make my own decisions, even if they might not technically be the smartest. “Well. Here I am,” I finally murmur. “The question is, what are you going to do with me?”
Something ignites in his dark eyes, and I swear it’s directly connected to my core. “I have a few ideas.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Roman apologizes. My head snaps toward him, and I lean away from Jagger, trying to put as much distance as possible between us, no matter how impossible it really is considering our current position. I don’t know why. It’s not like Roman doesn’t already know everything. Or maybe he doesn’t? He has to, doesn’t he?
“What is it?” Jagger asks.
Without a word, Roman tilts his head toward the opposite side of the street.
That’s when I see him. My dad. I haven’t seen him since Halloween. I haven’t needed to. It’s not like he comes into Harden Heights, and since I now live on campus, it’s been easy to keep a wide berth. Until tonight. Something curdles in my stomach, and a tremble works its way through me. Why? Why didn’t I piece together that he’d be here? And why do I feel betrayed because he received an invite? Because the Harden brothers extended one to him? Of course, they did. These nights are about money as much as they are about socializing and drinking and hooking up. And if there’s one thing my dad is good for, it’s a lousy bet to earn the house money. To earn Jagger and Ford and Hawke and Roman money.
A sour taste floods my mouth as my sperm donor stumbles toward Ford with his hand outstretched.
And just like that, the buzzing anticipation in my veins from moments ago turns to sludge.
I want to go home.
Jagger’s body tenses in front of me. “Be right back.”
“Jagger,” I start.
But he’s already gone, marching toward Ford and my sperm donor across the street.
Shit.
32
JAGGER
What the hell is he doing here? Keeping my pace steady, I stride closer as Violet’s deadbeat of a father offers Ford a couple rumpled twenties. How the hell did he know where to meet up tonight? I’m too surprised. We might only give details to a few specific people, but word travels fast, and the cops have no issue turning a blind eye to our activities. Honestly, we usually abide by the whole, the more the merrier sentiment, using the invitations as a way to attract more curiosity. More interest. The only time it’s an issue are in circumstances like this.
“I’m good for the rest,” Virgil slurs to Ford. “You know I am?—”
“Go home,” I interrupt.
If my brother’s surprised by my interruption, he doesn’t show it. Folding his arms across his chest, Ford leans back, letting me take the lead as he stands on the edge of the pavement, surrounded by other people waiting to place their bets for the evening.
“The race hasn’t started yet,” Violet’s dad argues.
