Page 8 of Tempest

“Problem?” I ask mildly.

Ardyn doesn’t answer. Instead, she stares into the passenger footwell where she and Mila are sharing space.

Understanding dawns, and a low growl of approval sounds in my throat. Ardyn’s head snaps toward me as if she heard it.

“Afraid to straddle the gearshift to give yourself more room?” I ask.

“Don’t look,” she whispers.

It’s said so brokenly and with such a shaking tremor that my hands involuntarily clench against the wheel.

Rumors ricocheted around Clover’s school since Ardyn enrolled last year. I’ve just graduated from a different boarding school, and even I heard how Ardyn had become faceless at the age of ten, isolated and home-schooled until she suddenly appeared as a junior at the most prestigious private school in Manhattan—one that Clover attended. After the shit that went down at my supposed elitist academy in Rhode Island, there was no way my parents could enroll Clover there and save any face. Four years above her, I didn’t pay much attention to Clover’s high school drama, but it was hard not to fall prey to the whispers of the ghostly heiress floating through Clover’s halls. She’s heavily guarded and in the permissible company of only two friends, Clover and Mila. I’m confident this is the most rebellious Ardyn’s ever been, and I’m happy to assist her in it.

As long as she’s not stupid enough to get caught.

“I won’t look,” I assure her. I’m shocked at how kind my voice sounds. And that I’m telling the truth.

Ardyn seems to believe me because she lifts her hips and slides the cotton down, bunching her knees to her chest to unhook them from her feet. Her white panties stay on, but I’m true to my word and don’t risk a peek. I can’t be punished for what goes on in my periphery, though, so focused that I nearly swerve into the lane next to ours.

Someone leans on their horn, bringing me out of my sidelong trance.

Mila screeches.

Ardyn dives for my chest.

I stiffen under her sudden warmth, though I return to our lane with ease. Her nails dig into my sides as the smell of mixed earth and gardenias floats into my nostrils.

Nobody touches me without my permission. Under most circumstances, I would fling a person off—even a chick—and growl at them never to do so again unless I ask them to, adding the promise of murder into my glare.

With Ardyn, for reasons I’ve yet to figure out, I don’t.

Thankfully, she does the work for both of us before I’m forced to say anything. She flings herself off me as quickly as she pressed her body to mine, straightening with haggard breaths and wild eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she pants. “I was—I’m not used to loud sounds like that.”

“It’s fine.” I sound out the words as if I’m talking to a spooked animal. “Nothing bad will happen with me at the wheel.”

Mila harrumphs. “Yeah, you’ve totally proved that. Try not to get us killed, please.”

I’d mostly forgotten she was here.

“Nice moves you got there,” she mutters to Ardyn before folding her arms and glaring out the passenger window.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Ardyn whispers in reply. I’m tempted to tell her that it’s a-okay to tell your friends to fuck off once in a while, then decide that it’s not my damned business.

Ardyn pulls her dress down to her ankles, our makeshift lapdance at an end. There’s no reason to have these girls in my car any longer and a hell of a lot of reasons for me to get back to my plans for the night, which was to meet my boy Rio at his chosen club where I could select my liquors and my ladies for the night. None of them would be innocent. Therefore, there’s no chance of them whispering brokenly in my ear, giving me a new awareness of the more sensitive parts of myself I’d thought I’d killed off a while ago.

My GPS blips her 200 feet warning, and I roll us to a stop in front of one of those hipster museums with clear glass windows and all-white walls showcasing their latest subjective masterpieces.

I stare at the entrance a little too long as the girls rustle beside me, grabbing their shit and readying to exit. It’s a strange place to host the rare artifact kind of auction Ardyn described, but what the fuck do I know? All I remember about ancient creations were the ones that decorated the underground tombs of my high school academy, and that shit is long buried in my gray matter.

Mila opens her door (the correct way this time) and exits without so much finger flutter.

Ardyn shifts into the open space but pauses with her tote back on her lap. “Thank you for the ride. And for being decent about my whole getting dressed thing.”

I tip my chin in acknowledgment without looking back at her. I can’t peel my gaze from the art house, and I’m having trouble figuring out why. It’s crowded, both inside and out, with women in long gowns and men in suits, most with a champagne flute in their hands. I spot an open bar in the back, and the few labels I catch showcase top-shelf liquor. A few clusters and cliques break off from the crowd and pause in front of large, colorful paintings, musing over the art.

Clover’s red dress parts a group in black as she heads to the door, waving as she spots Mila. Everything looks on board.

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