Page 32 of Wicked Duty
That fucker’s going down.
Chapter 12
Callum
My temper climbs as I watch the perverted prick place his hands on Lucy’s waist and reposition her.
I glance around for something small to chuck at the back of his head. A table of miniature water bottles catches my eye.
I swipe one, squeezing hard enough to send water raining out of my fist.
What is that asshole doing?
And more importantly, why hasn’t Lucy whipped that bottle of pepper spray out of her ass the way she did with me in the alley?
I wait a few seconds, expecting her to go off on the man. She doesn’t.
That’s when I realize I’m an idiot. Of course she won’t defend herself. That guy’s a judge, and she’s worried about retaliation.
One of his hands wanders up the side of her rib cage, almost reaching her breast. She freezes, panic flitting across her face.
My rage boils over, both at her for prioritizing this job above all else, and at the slimy bastard himself for putting his hands on her.
I spring into action, booking it for the stairs that lead to the stage as I unscrew the water bottle top and flick the cap off.Under the blinding heat of the stage lights, I march straight up to Lucy and the handsy judge and drop the water bottle on the floor at his feet.
He stumbles back with a soft curse, almost slipping in his Italian leather shoes. Even Lucy cracks a smile as he fumbles around like a giraffe on ice.
“Watch out.” I grab his arm to steady him and “accidentally” stomp the fuck out of his foot. The judge folds over, grunting in pain. I seize the opportunity to lean close under the pretense of apologizing and whisper in his ear. “If you touch her again, I’ll break your fingers. All ten of them. Slowly and with great pleasure.” I pat his back. “And before you pull the ‘do you know who I am’ card and threaten to get me fired, you should know I’m here at Shane Gallagher’s request. Understand?”
Recognition flashes in the judge’s eyes, and the color drains from his face. “Y-yes, I understand.”
“Good.” I manage a sharp elbow jab to his solar plexus before I straighten.
He moans, clutches his stomach, and waddles away.
“Everything okay, Jimmy?” a woman asks.
“In-indigestion,” he wheezes. “Gonna go grab some meds.”
I capture Lucy’s attention. Her eyes crinkle with confusion before filling with an unfamiliar glow. Studying me as if she’s seeing me for the first time, she moistens her lips and dips her chin in a nearly imperceptible nod, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.
The sight of that smile has a weird effect on my chest, and I feel my own mouth curve up in response.
I return her micro nod and pivot to retreat to the darkness beyond the lights, rubbing my sternum. Who knew such a minor show of warmth could have such a strong impact?
I glance at the hand rubbing my chest and immediately drop it to my side. Christ. Keep this up, and next thing I know, I’llstart calling Darren up to talk about my feelings. The strain of us sharing that box Lucy calls an apartment for the past week must be getting to me.
Wanting to fuck her is one thing. Who wouldn’t? But wanting anything deeper than that should send me sprinting to the hospital for a brain scan. My lifestyle makes dating a challenge, but even if it didn’t, a woman like Lucy Marlow would rank last on my list of potential partners.
I watch the remainder of the audition with renewed determination to maintain a professional distance. Once the competition portion ends—extending my headache since Lucy progresses yet again—an announcement declaring an after-party for all the successful contestants echoes through the room. Something about celebrating the end of the first day.
My immediate reaction to the idea of sticking around for an event stuffed full of even more batshit, obnoxious fashion people is a hard pass.
And I’m prepared to tell Lucy exactly that…until she appears with her fellow contestants, sparkling brighter than the biggest star in the sky. I open my mouth to inform her we’re leaving, but then I immediately snap it shut. Rubbing the back of my neck in defeat, I quietly curse whatever crazy spell she’s cast on me.
And there must be a spell, because instead of grabbing her and bringing her home, I trail her and the cluster of models from the ballroom and across the street to The Black Box like a puppy.
I’ve heard of this place. The Black Box is a ritzy, exclusive, upper-crust nightclub on the top floor of an eighty-foot skyscraper. More and more people seem to appear out of nowhere, slowing my pace as I cross the street and obstructing my view of Lucy.
