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He steps closer and I back up without thinking. The backs of my legs hit something solid.
The diving board.
When I don’t move fast enough, my breasts crush against the hard planes of his chest. He’s unyielding, the scorching heat from his body seeping through the layers of our clothes.
His woodsy, intoxicating scent is invading my senses again, slipping beneath all the reasons I hate him.
My body reacts instinctively, and it’s not the repulsion I felt when Knox grabbed me. This is being lit up by an electric current, one that makes me want to press closer. Just like that, I’m feeling the wind racing over my back on the bike. Jameson at my front, his intensity and competence.
Our faces are inches apart. All I see are the hard lines of his mouth, the drawn brows under the fall of dark hair. I feel his heartbeat like I did on the bike.
“You don’t belong here,” he whispers, his breath caressing my lips, sending a shiver up my spine.
His hand comes up suddenly. He grabs me, yanking me close.
Not by my neck. By my necklace.
“The only place you’ll end up,” he says, each word softer than the last, “is under an Ashford car with tire tracks up your back.”
All of it hits me—the fear, the doubt, the shame. I’m alone and completely out of my depth.
My hand covers his and it’s his turn to stiffen.
As if just my being here, refusing to back down, is destabilizing to him.
Laughter pours from the direction of the house, a voice I vaguely recognize as one of the other drivers. “Jameson? Where the fuck are you?”
I take advantage of his surprise to pry myself loose and run along the pool deck and out the gates.
The Ashford house is a glowing promise of sanctuary, but I don’t want to face my classmates, so I stumble through the darkness, reaching for my phone to find it dead.
Damn it.
If I can get to the road, I can get a ride. But the farther I walk, the more outraged I get at Jameson Ashford. His arrogance, believing he can take what he wants and control everyone else. Exactly like Luca. Judging from the photos in this house, my dad was even more important than I thought. Yet his job was at risk for taking a few weeks of leave.
The modern, single-story rectangular outbuilding I come across is bigger than my house, with a garage door on one side, and a standard door next to it.
No signs of life, but maybe there’s a phone I can use. I try the door handle, relieved when it turns. I push it in, feeling along the side for the lights.
The building hums to life, a cascade of fluorescents illuminating several cars. The closest to me is the Porsche 911 Turbo.
Jameson’s Porsche 911 Turbo.
No one is guarding it. They probably don’t even have security inside their gates because no one would dare touch their things.
I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the house. There are no windows in this garage. The stainless steel workbenches on two sides are equipped with tools.
Blood throbs in my veins.
I’m supposed to fly under the radar. Go about my business, collect my Ashford credits, and get out of this world that’s so far from my own.
I grab my necklace, still warm from his hand.
Jameson Ashford is an entitled asshole and he’s owed some vengeance.
When I crawl under his car, it’s the most powerful I’ve felt all week.
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