Page 118 of Vega

By the time the dancer climbed off my lap, my panties were ruined. I was wet, flustered, and entirely too aware of Vega watching me.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I said, standing before my body exposed me further.

Vega stood too.

I looked at him, confused. “Where are you going?”

“With you.”

“Why? Aren’t we safe here?”

His eyes moved over the club before returning to me. “Security’s heavy at the door. Nobody from Roman’s crew will make it inside, and nobody who looked suspect got past the entrance. The only people in here with guns are us and security. You’re fine. Roman wouldn’t pull anything with all the Street Kings here.”

“Then I’m good. I’ll be right back.”

“You got ten minutes before I come in there and get you.”

The way he said it sent another rush of heat between my thighs.

For a second, neither of us moved. His eyes stayed on mine with enough intensity to make me forget the entire club around us. My panties got worse before I could even walk away.

I turned away before he noticed. The crowd was packed so tight that I had to squeeze between bodies, tables, dancers, and women dancing. By the time I reached the bathroom, I needed a minute just to breathe.

The bathroom was full of patrons and dancers fixing makeup, adjusting outfits, counting money, and talking over the music.

Elana stood at the mirror. She was touching up her lip gloss when I walked in, watching me through the mirror without pretending not to. I ignored her and went into the stall.

After I used the bathroom, I dug through my purse and found a pantiliner. A quiet giggle slipped out. My life had gotten ridiculous. I didn’t even know what me and Vega were. He had feelings for me. But I didn’t fully trust my feelings for him. He had been all I’d known for a month. He was my kidnapper and my protector. He was the man who scared me and made me feel safe in the same breath.

Of course, I felt attached.

Of course, I wanted him.

Still, I had gotten to know him in ways that didn’t feel fake. We cooked together, slept beside each other, argued, laughed, watched TV, and survived people trying to kill us. That had to create feelings that I could believe in and trust.

I left the stall and found Elana still at the mirror. I washed my hands anyway.

Elana turned her body toward me and smiled. “Vega isn’t going to stop fucking me.”

I reached for a paper towel, refusing to let her see my jealousy. “Then you should probably tell him that, because he looked very unaware.”

One of the dancers laughed under her breath, and Elana glared at her, making the dancer pull her lips into her mouth to keep from doing it again.

I turned from the sink and faced Elana. “You climbed into his lap in front of everybody, and he moved you like you were blocking a much better view. Now you’re in the bathroom trying to convince me you still matter to him. That sounds less like proof and more like grief.”

“Oop,” somebody grunted.

A few women near the mirrors giggled.

Elana’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

I shrugged, giving her an exaggerated oblivious smirk. “You’re right. But I know rejection when I see it.”

“Don’t think anything that he said out there makes you special,” she seethed.

“I don’t think I’m special. But I do think that because you feel the need to announce you still have access to him, you’re embarrassed that he played you in front of me.”

The woman washing her hands beside me snorted a chuckle and turned toward her friend.