Page 73 of The Club

TWENTY-TWO

Rafael

I’m wearing a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I’ve washed the blood off my face. I need to go downstairs and face the shitstorm, but I’m stalling. I’m standing in front of my kitchen cabinet staring at the pasta canister.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out, expecting to see Noah’s name flashing on the screen, but that’s not what I find.

My heart skips. Shit.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“Don’t take anything,” Dominic says.

I huff. How the hell did he know?

He asks, “Have you already taken something?”

“No.”

“Good. Are you cleaned up?”

“Yes.”

“Then walk to the elevator. Stay on the phone.”

I don’t move. “I know you’re angry with me.”

“Very.”

My heart skips again. He has a right to be angry with me. I don’t know how to face him right now.

He says, “You need to get down here.”

“I know.”

“Come on, Angel, move your feet.”

I take a stuttering breath. It fucks me up when he calls me that. I hate it. I love it. I’m so confused by it. Sometimes I think he does it to hurt me. Sometimes I think he does it to say,I understand.

When I start walking, he must hear it because he says, “That’s it. Good. Don’t stop.”

I push the button to go down. The doors slide open and I step inside. When the doors close, I lose the signal and the calls drops, but I still have the phone at my ear when they open again. I lower it when I see Dominic waiting for me.

He looks just like he did earlier this morning when we left his apartment. He’s wearing his tailored black suit. His hair is perfect. His face is perfect.

But his jaw is hard and his dark eyes are angry. When the doors start to close because I’m taking too long, he slaps a hand on them and glares harder. God, he’s angry.

But he’s here all the same.

He came for me today, despite our argument, despite my lies. He saved my life, and Noah’s. He chose me. He claimed me.

I step out of the elevator to face him. He lets go of the door and it closes.

I want him to grab me and slam me into the wall. I want him to punish me.

He does punish me, but not in the way I want. He doesn’t touch me. He even puts his hands in his pockets. He jerks his chin down the hallway.

As he leads the way, I watch his gaze catch on the erotic photographs hung on the walls. Maybe he’s never noticed them before, but something about them grabs his attention now.

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