Page 6 of Enticing the Enforcer
“Well, statistically speaking,” he says, deadpan, “you're more likely to be murdered by a pop star than a college athlete.”
I let out a laugh. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Probably on ChattySnap. But hey, if I was planning to kill you, I wouldn’t have paraded you across campus.”
Fair. He’s not exactly hiding me, and true to his initial letter, thisisa tour of Wittmore. I swallow my concerns as we turn a corner and step off the main road. The noise fades, replaced by the occasional sound of campus life. Wittmore unfolds in front of us–wide lawns, old buildings, glowing lamplight washing the sidewalks in warm gold.
He points to a red brick building on our left. “That’s the comms building. My second home, basically. I’m a journalism major.”
I blink. “Wait–really?”
“What, don’t I look like the sensitive, ethical media type?”
“I just assumed your major was... gym.”
“Ouch.”
“You know what I mean. You exercise for fun.”
He chuckles, not offended. “Yeah, well, turns out I like writing almost as much as checking guys into the boards. If this hockey thing doesn’t work out, I’m hoping to end up in sports media. Maybe TV.”
“That actually makes sense.”
He tilts his head, looking at me. “Because I have a face for print?”
God no. He has a face that could be plastered on the cover of magazines and not just the sports ones. But the cocky smirk tugging at his mouth tells me he knows that. “I think it’s smart to have a second skill.” I look away from his exquisite jawline. “So where are we going?”
He flashes a grin, a little secretive now. “You’ll see. But I promise it’s safe, quiet, and has no frat bros or sorority hos.”
A laugh slips out. “You did not just say that.”
“I’m pretty sure I did.” Jefferson glances down at me with that lazy grin that should probably be illegal. “The arena.”
“You’re taking me to the one place I’ve already been and will perform in tomorrow?”
“I told you. It’s safe and quiet. No Ingrid Flockton fangirls or boys allowed,” he says, then winks. “Well, maybe one, but you reached out to me, and I brought food.” He then holds up a plastic card. “As a senior and alternate captain, I have a keycard, which gives me access twenty-four seven.”
I snort, thinking of the private clubs I’ve been to, the exclusive memberships. “I’m not sure that’s as impressive as you think it is.”
He leads me around the back of a wide brick building with a heavy metal door that clicks open when he swipes a card. It’s a different entry point than where I came in earlier with Madison and Marv, and a part of me notes that I should point out the breach before the concert tomorrow. But then I’d have to admit why I know about this and decide to file it away for later.
Inside, the hallway smells like leather, cleaning supplies, and that heavy scent that can only be identified as testosterone. I was here six hours ago, doing mic checks and sound tests, pacing the stage in platform boots while Madison fought with lighting techs, and I pretended my chest wasn’t tight just being there. I remember thinking it felt tooechoey, too impersonal. But now, peering through the glass window that looks into the space,without the stage lights and thumping sound systems, it feels different. Still. Dim. Almost like the place is holding its breath.
Jefferson continues past the rink, that I know is now covered with flooring and a stage. Instead, he leads me through a side hallway and into a room labeledLounge. It’s nothing fancy–a couple of couches, a scratched-up air hockey table, a vending machine missing most of its candy, and a big screen TV that takes up the majority of the back wall. He gestures to the couch. “Welcome to the inner sanctum.”
“Very elite,” I murmur, collapsing onto the cushions with a grateful sigh. “Smells like body spray and victory.”
“More like sweat and Febreze,” he admits, walking over to a refrigerator and opening the door. The inside is filled with water and sports drinks. He grabs two water bottles and sets them on the table, then sits next to me. “But we’ve had a hell of a run. A few more days and we’ll go down in the history books as either winners or losers.”
Something tells me Jefferson Parks doesn’t like losing.
He opens the bag and starts handing me food. I unwrap the burger and it’s just like he said, double cheeseburger, bacon, avocado, the works–and it smells absurdly good.
“Holy shit,” I say around the first bite, barely managing not to groan. “This is… dangerous.”
Seriously. I think my mouth is having an orgasm.
“I’m not stupid. You want to impress a goddess, you show up with the best food in town.”
