Corrupt - Douglas Penelope. Страница 77

I’d spent twenty minutes in front of a floor length mirror, checking my footwork and parrying with a tennis ball before finishing with thirty minutes of sequences.

Fencing wasn’t something I competed at, but it was something I endeavored to perfect. My father had wanted me to study it, and even though I could’ve quit at any time, I refused. It would’ve been closing a door. Leaving him behind in a way.

I just wished I had someone to practice with—a club or a program at a gym or something. It was dull training on my own, which was why I’d barely done any workouts since moving to Meridian City.

My phone started ringing, and I set down my water bottle, staring at Michael’s name on the screen.

Hitting Ignore, I turned off my phone and pushed it away.

Every time he called or texted, it was demands, orders, and updates about where I was, what I was doing, and if I’d talked to anyone today. He never asked me how I was or said anything nice.

Until he finally showed up, late and worked-up from his basketball practice, wanting in my bed.

He’d walk in, lock the door, and start stripping off my clothes, and everything I told myself to strengthen my resolve when he wasn’t here went out the fucking window.

I’d wrap my legs around his waist and let him carry me to my room.

He was winning, and here I was again, playing his game.

I made my way for the refrigerator to get another bottle of water, but three quick knocks hit the front door, and I halted, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.

It’s okay. If it were Damon—or Trevor—the door was locked, and no one could get in.

Walking slowly for the door, I tightened my fist around the handle of my foil and leaned in, peering through the peephole.

Nothing but black. The lapels of his jacket, a shirt, and then there was a sliver of smooth, tanned neck. I couldn’t see his face, six-foot-four as he was, but I’d know Michael anywhere.

“Who is it?” I asked playfully.

“Who do you think?” he snapped. “Open the damn door.”

I shook my head, laughing to myself. Any opportunity to aggravate him was a small victory.

Opening the door a few inches, I stood there, fixing him with a defiant stare.

“A little early, aren’t you?” I challenged. “You usually like your ass around ten.”

He hooded his eyes, not the least bit amused. “Let me in.”

But I shook my head, keeping him at bay. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not interested tonight.”

“Not interested?” He scowled. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you can’t keep me locked up to be at your service whenever you’re in the mood.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” He pushed open the door and walked in, forcing me to back away. “You think I’m hiding you?”

He took another step toward me, but I immediately raised my pathetic sword between us, stopping him. Its flat tip pressed into his torso while the hilt nearly pressed into mine, keeping forty-three inches between us.

He let out a bitter laugh, looking down at my weapon. “My games are more fun.”

But I wasn’t playing. “You took Alex out,” I reminded him. “My first night at Delcour, she was in a dress, you were in a suit, and you both had just gotten back here from wherever you were at. You haven’t taken me anywhere.”

He swiped the sword away and walked into me, backing me up against a wall. Leaning his hand above my head, he dipped down, holding my eyes.

“So what do you want?” he sneered. “Flowers? A nice, polite dinner in a pretty dress, and a nice, polite fuck in a hotel room? Then I’ll see you to your door at the end of the night? Come on, Rika. You’re disappointing me. That isn’t us.”

“Us?” I argued. “There is no ‘us.’ You have no idea what makes me happy, and you don’t care.”

“Really?” He nodded with a sarcastic lift to his eyebrows. “So sneaking into Hunter-Bailey for their open bouting event tonight wouldn’t make you happy? Because that’s what I was coming to get you for.”

My eyes rounded, and my mouth fell open.

“But if you’d rather dinner and movie, hey.” He shrugged. “I can go buy some boring fucking flowers, too.”

I broke out a wide smile, squealing as I jumped up and wrapped my arms around him.

He tried to stay stiff and aggravated, but I could see the smile trying to break out.

“You suck,” I teased.

“So do you,” he retorted, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Don’t tell me how to treat you, okay? I know exactly what you like.”

And then he pulled away, giving me a light slap on the ass. “Now go shower and change. You stink.”

I couldn’t stop grinning as I spun around and dashed into the bathroom.

“STAND UP STRAIGHT,” Michael scolded, tossing his keys to the valet.

I followed him to Hunter-Bailey’s stairs, immediately squaring my shoulders and clutching my forest green duffel bag over my shoulder.

“Are you sure this is going to be okay?” I asked, facing him.

He reached behind my head and grabbed the black hood of the over-sized sweatshirt he’d put on me, pulling it over my hair.

“Who’s going to stop us?” he shot back.

I twisted my lips to the side as he tucked my long hair inside the hood.

Who’s going to stop us? Would I ever learn to retort with that when I had doubts? No, because I was a worrier.

“Well, what if they find out I’m a woman?” I pressed, my skin tingling as his hands grazed my face.

“Then smile and own it,” he replied. “The only way we find out what we’re capable of is by getting into a little trouble.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Sometimes getting into trouble can get you into a lot of trouble. Just ask Kai and Will.”

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Are you planning to beat up any cops or sleep with underage girls?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Come on.” He took my hand, pulling me up the stairs.

Opening the door, he entered, letting me follow, and I kept my head down, hearing glasses clink and boisterous laughter coming from the dining room.

The pungent scent of cigars drifted out, assaulting my nostrils, so I inhaled short, shallow breaths.

Michael laid a hand on my back, guiding me toward the stairs.

“Mr. Crist?” a male voice called, and we stopped.

My heart jumped in my chest, but I didn’t turn around.

“Policy requires that everyone check in, sir,” the man said. It must’ve been one of the attendants.

“This is William Grayson III,” Michael answered, his voice calm and confident.

I could feel the man’s eyes on my back.

After a few moments, he cleared his throat and answered, “Of course, sir.”

Relief swept over me, but I knew he knew. How could he not? If he knew Will at all, he would know I was several inches shorter and eighty pounds of muscle too small.

But he wouldn’t challenge a member. If Michael said I was Will, then I was Will.

“Come on.” Michael nudged my back, sending me up the staircase.

I tightened my grasp on my bag and jogged up the stairs, hearing footfalls above me and chatter coming from the rooms we passed as he led me down the hall.

“Follow close,” he told me over his shoulder. “Don’t look up.”

I kept my eyes down and my head bowed, simply watching the back of his shoes as I shadowed him down the hallway. We walked through a door and across another room.

It was the gym. I could tell by the glossed, wooden floors, the sound of speed bags being hit, and the squeaks of tennis shoes. Following Michael’s order, I didn’t look up, simply walking as quickly as possible to the locker room door as he opened it, rushing me in.

He led me past the steam room, the sauna, and the spas, their water vapor winding up out of the pools like a witch’s brew, and led me past the lockers and the few male voices I could hear lurking about in the vast room. Curving to the right, we stepped into a row of frosted glass doors. Michael grabbed the handle of one and pushed me inside, stepping behind me and closing the door.