Page 73 of House Rules
23
Storm
It’s notthe noise that gets to me. It’s the people.
Her, especially.
It’s one big circle of watching in here—the guys watching Phoenix, Phoenix watching us, me watching Phoenix watch us like she’s bracing for the storm I’m trying my damndest not to be.
Chain links skim her skin as she shifts restlessly against the wall—the same one she sat against the night she first arrived—and for a moment it’s as if the entire room forgets how to breathe.
I keep breathing, though. In. Out. Thesteel of my Tighe knife warm against my fingers, blade flipping knuckle to knuckle to keep my hands occupied.
The bet burns behind my ribs like cheap whiskey burns the throat—stupid and hot. I care way too much about this thing that started as a joke and turned into a scoreboard.
If I had a brain, I’d swallow my pride, take the L, and fucking talk to her.
If I had a brain, I’d ask her why she flinches sometimes when we move too fast, why she’s hiding shit in her ceiling, why her shoulders square up like a boxer’s when someone says her name.
I guess I don’t have a brain, though, because instead I sit back like a carved-out statue, some chick draped across my lap. She giggles, a syrupy sound that doesn’t stick to anything, and trails her fingers over the ink at my throat. My attention never leaves Phoenix.
She thinks we’re killers.
The thought shouldn’t sting. It does, though. It hits someplace bone-deep I haven’t let anyone else touch.
I don’t know when I started wanting to be the opposite of what she sees—something that holds instead of harms, something that stands between her and the worst thing she’s imagining. But I did.
“Fuck me.”
I look up at Maverick’s soft curse to see Phoenix licking—fucking licking—tequila off of another chick. I go rock hard instantly and squeeze my eyes closed against the pulse of need.
The girl on my lap squirms a little and bats her lashes, peeks up through them like I’m supposed to be moved. I’m not cruel, but I’m not soft, either. That’s not for her.
I twirl the blade, let it whisper down the front of her dress from neckline to hem, just the tease of it. She shivers at the attention and arches, and the knife catches the fabric higher than I mean it to. A sliver of red wells up on the swell of her tit. Just a bead, clean and bright.
There’s a gasp that isn’t hers.
I look up to find Phoenix already looking at me. Hurt sits in her eyes like I put it there on purpose.Like every bad story she’s heard about us suddenly found the proof it wanted.
My hand goes still. The girl on my lap makes a sound like she’s proud of the mark. Phoenix swallows, and it’s the smallest sound in a loud room, but it cuts through every other noise. She shakes her head a little and looks away.
Self-loathing spears through me, and my gaze snags and holds Con’s. He shrugs, and my grip tightens around the Tighe.
Decision.It’s a click in my head, like a knife seating home in its sheath. I can give a stranger a Band-Aid, but I can’t stitch the kind of rip I put in Phoenix’s trust if I keep playing the part Con’s writing for us.
“Up,” I tell the girl, and slide her off my lap without finesse. She squeals. I don’t look to see where she lands.
Phoenix tries to ghost when she sees me stand. She’s good at it—slipping sideways, letting bodies and sound cover her exits. I’m better. I catch her wrist, and she jerks against my hold, eyes flaring. I lower my voice.
“Walk.”
“Storm,” she says, warning and plea tangled together.
I don’t give her time to decide which it is. I glance at the guys. Con lifts his chin, a quiet ask. Atticus’s hand tightens around a glass, then relaxes. The nod I give them is short.Trust me.Nothing more.
She protests when I haul her up, stronger when I throw her over my shoulder, but it’s not a fight. It’s noise—fear-shaped, angry around the edges. Her fist thuds my back once. Twice. Then she goes still except for the angry huff of her breath against my spine.
The elevator hums our descent after I get on and punch the button.
