Page 11 of Beneath the Hood

I’ve just convinced myself to look away, and find someone I can actually take home, when I see that fucking idiot DJ grab Blakely and pull her roughly into his side.

Anger spikes in my gut at the way he’s manhandling her, but I shake the feeling before it has a chance to fester.This is ridiculous.I don’t even like Blakely, there’s no reason I should care about who’s touching her.

“Are they together?” I blurt.

“What?” Kayla cups a hand over her ear, scooting in closer until her thigh presses against mine. She glances at me from under her lashes. “Sorry, hard to hear over the music.”

I smirk. This girl is cute, but not very skilled in the art of seduction. I wonder how confident she’d feel if she knew that drink she’s slurping has turned her mouth blue.

“I asked if they were together.” I nod my head toward the stage. “Blakely and that guy. The DJ.”

She laughs. “Oh, no. Blakely doesn’t date. Avirgin,” she whispers dramatically, taking another sip. “I don’t think they’ve ever met.”

My brows lift in shock. Blakely’s always so confident in her advances, I assumed she had more experience. I glance back toward the stage. “Should he be touching her like that then?”

She cocks her head to the side. “Like what?”

“Like he doesn’t give a fuck if she wants it or not.” My jaw clenches, and I try to temper the bite in my voice. I don’t like to cause scenes, content to learn people’s traits by observing rather than making knee-jerk decisions. But in this moment, I want to jump on stage, and rip that skinny prick’s hands from Blakely’s body. Force him to apologize for touching what doesn’t belong to him.

Kayla chuckles again. “Oh, don’t worry about her.” She brushes the hair off her shoulder, setting her drink on the table in front of us. “She’s used to it.”

Mr. Donahue’s words from earlier today whisper in my head—how he doesn’t trust the people in her life—and for the first time tonight, I’m thankful I’m here, because I’m beginning to think he was right. She does need someone to look out for her. To make sure she’s taken care of.

“Hmm,” I mutter. My eyes are drawn back to her hips as they swing like a pendulum, lulling me into this fucked up hypnotic state—taunting me with what she’s offering. What she’salwaysoffering.

She’s nineteen.

* * *

Blakely’s beena master of the VIP room ever since she walked in. She smiles when appropriate and takes photos with fans who’ve paid God knows what to get the privilege. All run-of-the-mill stuff, I’m sure.

But it’s all so fake.

Sheis fake.

Anyone who cares to look can see it’s forced. But as I watch from the back corner as Blakely flits from place to place, I realize that in a club filled with hundreds desperate to stand in her shine, none of them reallysee. And maybe that’s the problem.

You learn a lot about a person from paying attention to what they don’t say. And Blakely Donahue doesn’t say a lot.

I wonder if anyone has ever listened to her silence.

The blaring music starts up again, the bass vibrating so loud it rattles my bones, and I sigh, tired of the charade. Ready to go home. I head to the outside bar, both to get a break from the music, and to get away from a bunch of kids who aren’t even old enough to be here. Pulling out my phone, I check for any missed calls or texts, my chest pinching when I see a blank screen.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. My friends in Sugarlake still have each other, like they did before I moved there when I was sixteen. I’ve always been the transplant. The added feature. One that makes your life easier but doesn’t sever your ability to function once it’s gone.

Knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“You look like you’ve got good stories.” The raspy voice of the bartender pulls me from my thoughts.

She leans over, and my eyes drop to her cleavage, appreciating how they bounce as she wipes the bar top down. It would be rude not to watch since she’s putting on such a show.

“Do I?” I smirk, meeting her almond eyes.

I hold her gaze, waiting for that spark to flare, the same way it did earlier with Blakely. Ineedit to flare. To prove its lack of sex making my body react, and not something else.

Unfortunately, disappointment is the only thing that flickers.

Still, she’ll be a good distraction. I can’t give her stories, but Icangive her thirty minutes in the stock room closet.

---