Until two days ago.
I’m so fucking scared to text him. If Major Jarvis found out, he’d punish Griff with that mask. I can’t be the reason he’s strapped into that thing any more than I already have been. But I keep hoping he’s found some way to get in touch with me. Maybe through Wren or Scout?
Still nothing, though. I pocket my phone.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Lead the way.” My hand smacks into his chest, and he stumbles. His face says he wants to eviscerate me, but he doesn’t retaliate.
Tate’s eyes rake over me as if he’s taking inventory. There’s arousal there, sure, but I get the distinct impression he’s looking for damage.
Weird.He’s so weird.
Once he’s satisfied, he takes a glass off the table. We’re in a sectioned-off area above the rest of the crowd. There are leather chairs, a TV, food and drinks. “Champagne?” he offers.
“I don’t drink alcohol,” I say, automatically.
“You were drinking alcohol the last time I saw you,” he says.
“How did you?—”
“It was on your breath.”
There’s no way I’m getting into the details of my forced sobriety with him. “I’ll have water if you have it,” I say instead of explaining myself.
He reaches into a bucket filled with ice and hands me a bottle. I sigh, taking a sip. “Why am I here?”
“You don’t want to watch the game?”
No one’s on the ice. We must be at an intermission before the third. “I want to play in the game, VanCourt. How can we make that happen?”
Tate pauses, sipping champagne. “Tell me why you need to play, and maybe we can work something out.”
No way he means any of that. He wants information from me. I know when I’m the underdog in a situation. I might have to give a little to get a little here. “I need the money.”
He raises a brow. Yeah, okay, I deserve that brow raise. The idea that I could need money is ridiculous. He might not know much about me, but my family name is infamous. “It’s for something Father wouldn’t approve of,” I add.
“Want to buy that new Porsche and Daddy won’t let you?”
“Something like that. It’s important.”
“How much money do you need?”
I take a breath, standing taller. “One hundred thousand.” But my voice wavers. Because every time I say it or think about it, my brain reminds me that one hundred thousand dollars isn’t enough to get Griff and me away from Henry Savage. I’m reminded how much I’ve fucked up my life and Griff’s. I can’t bear it anymore.
So, yeah. Cheers to utter desperation. Have I developed any confidence in the plan since its inception? No. But there’s been nothing else, and every day that I’m forced to leave Griff to the wolves ratchets the ever-present anxiety curdling in my gut.
Like, fuck. Shouldn’t he be on some kind of suicide watch? What if he tries something again? I don’t know what’s going through his head.
Tate nods. “I can arrange that if you do some things for me.”
“If you’re about to ask me to be your whore, the answer is no.”
He smiles, a laugh playing on his lips. “I don’t need to pay you for sex if that’s what you mean by whore. And I wouldn’t pay. If you want my cock again, you’ll have to beg for it, dollface. You can beg me to let you be my whore.”
My cheeks heat. I’m probably a severe shade of red. But my hard cock’s begging me to beg him. “What do you want, Tate?”
“First, I want you playing for Shadowridge. The team needs money; your dad has enough to solve their problems.”
Theirproblems. That’s an interesting way to put it when he’s the coach. But that one’s easy to figure out. He cares as far as it concerns him. I take a long chug of water to make it look like I’m thinking, though. Because me playing for Shadowridge is never going to happen. He’s either unaware of the Savage legacy with North Point, or he’s just that arrogant.
