Page 4 of Grind
He runs a hand across the hard planes of his jaw, adding, “I’m Connor, by the way, and you’re in the private area of my club, Intrigue. You’re totally safe here. If there’s anything you need or want, just say the word.”
That deep voice has an easy and light quality to it, so different from the way he spoke back in the street. He sounds like a man who likes to laugh. And the idea of being so close to a man like that makes my throat constrict even more. Men in my life have brought me nothing but pain.
Giving my head a little shake, I wait for the fog to clear. Connor clears his throat and his face swims back into focus.
“My inhaler,” I finally manage to whisper. “He knocked it out of my hand, in the street…”
Before I can finish, he’s on his feet. Connor’s brow furrows, a lock of dark unruly hair spilling down over his forehead. Kindness touches his eyes. He gives me one sharp nod, as his hand grazes my shoulder just for a second. They’re rough and callused, but his touch seems impossibly gentle.
“I’ll find it.”
He disappears through the door and back out into the night. My eyes drift, taking in the room around me.
Intrigue. I’ve heard the name. It’s a nightclub that everyone jokes is owned by the mafia, since it’s one of the only clubs to survive the Stacy family’s overhaul of Boston’s red-light district. I hadn’t been inside, but my classmates say it’s different now than when it opened years ago. It’s no dive, but a modern, edgy club that attracts Boston’s wealthy elite.
Maybe the mob thing’s more than a rumor. Everything feels heavy, so I concentrate on remaining calm. I must drift off for a few minutes because I awake to another gentle touch on my shoulder. For the first time in months, I don’t jerk awake in a wave of panic.
“Miss,” the big man rumbles as his face comes into view “Is this yours?”
When I nod, his forearm slides around my back and he helps me sit up, laying the little red plastic inhaler in my open palm. If only he’d found my three hundred dollars, too. But it looks like that got pocketed by someone passing by tonight.
Not a surprise, but I have to fight a new wave of anxiety. I can probably make rent, but food?
Shaking the medicine, I take two long puffs. Tension eases as my airways open and I take a deep breath. My eyes drift shut in relief, and then open so I can focus on the lines of his face.
I flash him the most grateful smile I can manage.
“Thank you,” I say, finally sounding more like myself. “You saved my life.”
First from Brooks. Then from the asthma.
Something in my gut tells me that I can trust him, trust Connor. That’s the one thing that I’ve always known. One thing I can always trust – no matter how bad things get - is my instincts. Even when I met Brooks, when he’d been a perfect gentleman and had an unfailing pedigree, something felt off. I just wish I’d listened.
This man? There’s definitely more than meets the eye. And yet, the one part of myself and the world that I still trust says he’s a good man.
That crookedgrin spreads across his face again. What would kissing that dimple feel like? My cheeks immediately flame with heat. Just the idea of wanting to touch a man, let alone a stranger, seems completely foreign. But this man is disarming, even in the face of such a bad night.
Maybe that makes him even more dangerous.
“My pleasure,” he says, taking a seat next to me on the couch. We’re so close. Heat radiates from his body, even though we’re not actually touching. The flush on my cheeks creeps lower, an inexplicable rush of desire moving through me.
“Can I ask what happened? Who’s the preppy asshole?”
His voice is casual, but the weight of his stare tells me he’s paying sharp attention.
It all floods back now that I can breathe, and the weight of familiar darkness settles on my chest. Somehow, the loss of that relief I’d felt for just an instant seems worse, though.
“Did I run into you?” I ask softly, dodging the question. I don’t want to lay bare the mess and the shame of the last year of my life to this man. He’s done nothing to get dragged into this, not really. Telling him more might change that. Put him in danger.
And selfishly, it’s the first time in months I’ve felt anything approaching normal.
“I barely felt it, miss. You’re not very big.”
He pauses a beat, and then says perceptively, “But that’s not what I asked you, is it?”
Not unkind, but also not going to be distracted by diversion tactics either. He might look easygoing. But this is a man who knows what he wants and gets it.
Heat sweeps over my cheeks, taking them from pink to searing red. The familiar heavy feeling of embarrassment, of shame, drops from my chest and makes me feel nauseous.
