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He looks really fucking good in a soft white shirt open at the throat and with jeans low on his hips. From the sweat glistening on his brow, I’d say he’s been dancing.
His outfit isn’t that different from our uniform—a shirt and pants—but somehow, it’s night and day. I would never guess this guy is a senior in high school if I didn’t know him. He looks older, all broad shoulders and lean muscles. Not to mention the sinful way his pants fit him.
Dammit. I hate that I can’t look away.
It's a high climb to the second floor,and we proceed in silence at a leisurely pace that allows me to look at the circus girls from higher up and sip my drink.
“This is an epic club,” I admit.
The music’s a little less loud from this distance—I don’t have to shout.
Jason shrugs. “We needed somewhere to chill. Our parents meet at the Heritage building, and we do have a floor we can use over there, but would you party a floor down from your folks?”
I laugh. “Hell, no.” Well, my mother, I wouldn’t mind that much, but I don’t even like my father seeing me in a mini skirt. He doesn’t say anything, but the judgement pisses me off.
“Exactly.” He grins back at me.
“So, how do you knowofmy mother?” I ask, remembering where we left our text conversation.
He shrugs. “She hangs out at the Heritage sometimes—with my father’s generation. She and your…how do you call him again? Uncle?”
My eyebrows hike up an inch. “Yeah?”
He nods. “She has an honorary admission. She’s not a member, but she’s welcome occasionally. My parents know her well. That makes me think…”
Jason removes his phone from his back pocket and navigates through apps for a few moments. My phone rings in my purse. I take it, and look.
He’s sent me a form, of all things.
It has an H on the letter head, and like his barcode-slash-invitation card, the background is black with white font.
“An NDA?” I say, scanning the first few words.
He nods. “This is members-only territory—you’ll have to sign it before I let you in.”
I blink, confused. “And if I don’t?”
He shrugs. “I take you back downstairs to your friends, and we’ll do this next time, when you feel comfortable enough to sign.”
What the hell?
“This? What isthis? Why do I have to sign an NDA?”
The corner of his mouth hitches up a little. “I suppose you’ll find out after signing.”
This guy is seriously frustrating.
I sit on the stairs and read each word, because I’m not about to sign anything before combing every word of it. Jason sits next to me, and starts to twirl my hair around a finger .
I glare at him. “Stop distracting me.”
He laughs and leaves me to it.
It looks like a standard NDA—I signed one a couple of months back when going to my uncle’s company. It wasn’t necessary before I turned eighteen, but for legal reasons, I had to this summer. Not that I ever saw anything super-secret. I only dropped by there occasionally at lunch time to bring Uncle Lucius some sandwiches.
This one threatens to sue me to the tune of a million dollars if I divulge anything going on within the premises—the exception being to report criminal activity. It also adds that the Heritage and its affiliates could retaliate by sharing compromising information about me. My uncle’s NDA was stricter, promising criminal charges for opening my trap.
Finally, I sign the document.
