Page 91 of The Ruthless Note

“We could spend this class doing something more enjoyable, Brahms. Your pick.”

I pull my lips into my mouth even as my traitorous body begs for his kiss. “Which was the G chord again?”

His lips twitch, but he steps back and shows me—without touching me this time.

I catch on pretty quickly.

“Okay.” Dutch grabs my arm. “Let’s go.”

“Go? Go where?”

But he doesn’t answer. In typical Dutch fashion, the prince of Redwood answers to no one.

He drags me to the cafeteria where the ladies are bustling around, already preparing for lunch.

“Dutch!”

“Hi, Dutch!”

“Dutchie!”

All the ladies brighten when he gets near.

“You’re here to play for us again?”

Dutch smiles, no hint of the dangerous villain in sight. “Not today. It’s Cadey’s turn.”

“My turn for what?”

“You’re going to play while they work,” he says, folding his arms over his chest.

“You’re insane.” I hold the guitar away from me like it’s a live fish.

“You’re wasting their time.” He jerks his chin pointedly at the guitar.

I glare at him, wishing I could take the guitar and bash him over the head with it. But Dutch is smart. He brought witnesses. Cute, lunch lady witnesses who are watching us as if we’re a couple straight out of their favorite TV soap opera.

Dutch kicks a short stepping stool at me. I have no idea where he got it from, but I get the sense that it’s always been there. Something only he and the lunch ladies know.

Inhaling a shaky breath, I set one foot on the stepping stool and balance the guitar on my knee. My fingers are trembling so hard that I can’t even pin them on the strings.

I can’t do it. I can’t…

Dutch slides in front of me, his body heat pulling me out of my thoughts. “Strum the chord, Cadey.”

“No, I…” I lick my lips frantically. The cafeteria ladies are watching me like I’m insane. “Not as me. I can’t do it as me. If I had my wig—”

“You don’t need the damn wig.” His fingers wrap around my wrist. “You did it with a triangle in front of a bunch of high school freshmen.”

“But that was—”

“Different? No, it’s not. Not in the ways that matter. This is a guitar, not a piano. And there are only a couple ladies behind the counter.” He tilts my chin up. His voice is softer this time. “And I’m here.”

The way he’s standing over me, full of calm confidence and determination, like he owns the whole world and what he doesn’t have, he can take—it makes me angry. And it also makes me feel safe.

Dutch Cross is a maniac with his sights set on me, but do I fear him more than I fear the stage?

I don’t know any more.

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