Not tonight. Not after I spent the day stalking her mother, not on the day her sister got married.
S: Another night
A: Promises, promises
S: Oh, ye of little faith
A: I should have some faith?
S: Did I not say I was picturing you in lace and nothing else? Yeah, babe. Have some faith.
She sends a smiley face in response, and then goes radio silent. Her sister is getting married, after all. I can’t hog her attention.
I return my attention to the heat signatures. There’s some movement in the room, and the waitress hasn’t even gone in yet. Crap.
The front door of the run-down building opens, and out walks an older, portly man I’d recognize anywhere. He’d been my covert boss for nearly three years.
If Cole wasn’t getting married right now, I’d be getting his ass on the phone.
What the hell was Alison’s mother doing meeting with the head of PRISM? The international black ops agency funded a lot of different organizations, including—until recently—The Horus Group, but nearly half its mandate was carried out by covert agents, trained by the CIA, and sent into the field completely on their own.
And then hung out to dry if and when their missions fail—an experience I’ve had first hand.
At least I wasn’t assassinated. Something to be said for being relatively small potatoes in the world of international espionage.
I don’t know what Cole’s gotten wind of. I don’t want any part of this, unless I need to be a part of this…Fuck.
I watch the director get in a car with a driver that I’d spotted when I arrived. It heads back in the direction of Washington. Amelia Dashford Reid comes out next, on the arm of a man I don’t recognize. I snap photos, send them to Wilson, the hacker partner in The Horus Group, and set my truck in gear.
Wherever they go, I’ll follow. And when I finally get home tonight, I’ll have the world’s longest shower and wash off all of this grossness. This isn’t the life I want anymore.
Ali.
Ali is all that I want now.
— —
The next night, I’m the one who texts her.
S: Need a ride home tonight?
A: Always looking for a ride.
S: Bad girl.
A: Exactly.
And so it goes. I’m like a kid with a not-so-secret crush, but we’re dancing around it, and she’s okay with that. Each night we take a step toward actually calling what we’re doing extended foreplay. And each night we stop a little short.
We’ve done this a few times now. Sometimes I find her. Sometimes she tells me she’s out alone. I walk or drive her home, and leave her at her door because she’s still working on wearing down my willpower, and I’m still working on what I want to happen next.
But there’s no question that her texts make my day, every damn time.
And then on an unseasonably warm night in late March, she pushes the envelope a little further.
A: I’m going to be studying late tonight
S: Dashford Library?
A: Darkest corner of the campus… It’s a nice night, but I’ll be so scared to walk home all by myself…
S: You want to walk?
A: If I have company
S: What time should I pick you up?
A: Midnight
S: That’s some serious studying
A: I’m a serious girl
S: I have no doubt
A: Any chance I can turn this walk home into a booty call?
I don’t answer her. I don’t trust myself, either way. Yes, there’s a chance. There’s also a chance my inner moral compass will right itself and I’ll leave this girl alone.
Not a good one, but there’s always a chance.
—eleven—
Alison
I’m wearing a dress tonight. It’s this light cotton thing I found at the mall for twelve dollars. Hailey laughs at my love of the clearance rack, but every time I wear something like this, I feel a little more normal. And it’s not like she’s wrapping herself in Prada every day, either. But she hides her rich girl in a basket of wool that probably cost a few hundred dollars, easily. And she gives back to the community, too. But she also goes to black-tie things and…she fits in better, even if she doesn’t like it.
The only trapping of wealth I cling to is my regular spa visit and my Agent Provocateur collection.
The rest of the time I’m wearing secondhand jeans and discount dresses, yoga pants and hoodies from Old Navy.
I eat ramen noodles and iceberg lettuce, too, now that I’m living on my own.
That was a big step, because I didn’t want to get a job. Finishing my degree early…three more months to go now…was my biggest priority. I took an extra class each term, and summer school, and started my senior thesis halfway through my junior year.
And every time my faculty advisor gave me a doubting look or a gentle reminder that everyone has limits, I buckled down and did my next task even better.
I’m on the Honor Roll. I spend less than four hundred dollars a month on groceries and clothes.
And I’m addicted to Scott Mayfair.
So right now, I’m wearing a dress.
Not because it’s cheap. Not because it’s surprisingly warm today.
No, I’m wearing a dress because when the spring wind swirls over my bare legs, the skirt’s going to lift up. And I’m going to pretend to hold down the fabric, but not before Scott sees that I’m wearing barely there pink panties underneath.
A year ago, I would have said I had zero vices.
Now I’m seriously addicted to seducing an older man.
He finds me in the library. He shows up fifteen minutes early and lounges quietly in the chair across the table from me. He’s overdressed for a midnight study session, in his dark suit and white shirt—I’m not sure the man owns jeans and t-shirts, and I find myself so distracted by that thought that I set aside my textbook and finally just look at him.
He’s been looking at me for a while.
“Do you wear a suit every single day?” I finally ask him, breaking the heavy silence stringing between us.
“Most days,” he says slowly.
“I like it.”
“Good.”
“I’m pretty much done here.”
“I’m in no hurry.” Half of his mouth lifts up in an almost-smile. “I like watching you work.”
“I’d say the same to you, but I’m not sure what you’re doing now.”
His smirk deepens. “I’m trying to re-establish some business connections I had in England.”
I laugh. “That’s a total non-answer.”
“Sure is.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I tuck my laptop away and try to decide which books I want to check out and which can be re-shelved. “Here,” I finally say, shoving most of them across the table at him. “Carry these downstairs for me.”
“You need all these books?”
I shake my head. “But I’ve got the extra muscle tonight, so I might as well take them all and figure out which ones I need when I get home.”
He follows me to the elevator. I walk in front of him a few feet, hoping he’s checking out my legs, and when I turn around, his gaze is definitely tangled up in my lower body. I flush with inordinate pride, because how many times has he taken me home now and not given in the need throbbing between us?
But I’ve got faith that one of these days, I’ll be a little bit older and he’ll be a little bit hungrier, and it’ll be enough.
The weeks-old kiss still burns on my lips. I can still feel his hands on my body.
One day soon, maybe tonight, it will have to be enough.
The streets are quiet and it doesn’t take long to get back to my apartment. We get out of his car without discussing it. Maybe he’s just walking me to my door, but I don’t think so. I think the dress worked.
His hand hovers in the small of my back as we climb the stairs.
My heart is pounding a mile a minute. I’ve wanted this for months now. Touched myself to a dozen different versions of how this might happen, and none of them felt like this. Not even kissing in New York felt like this, because that was a response. I’d goaded him into that.
This is different.
Terrifying. Exciting. Confusing.
Riddled with doubt.
In all my fantasies about my sister’s bodyguard taking my virginity, I knew he wanted me. But the truth is, Scott’s had zero problem keeping me at arm’s length despite the chemistry between us.
So he thinks I’m pretty.
So he can’t stop looking at my legs.
He’s not a walking dick—part of why I’m attracted to him, I guess. But that control works against me, too.
If he says good night at the door, I’m going to need some serious ice cream therapy.
If he says good night at the door, I’m going to have to admit that I am a silly girl with a silly crush. And I don’t want that to be true.
So when we get to my apartment, I slide the key into the lock, but I don’t turn the handle. Not yet.
I want him to make the first move tonight.
A slow, rough exhale behind me kickstarts my heart. Then I feel his fingers on the nape of my neck. “You want me to come in?”
“I think you should either come in…” I say slowly, my pulse pounding so hard it hurts. “And if you don’t…maybe you should stay gone.”
“You think I can stay gone?”
“That’s not my problem if you can’t.”
“Coming in is a bad idea.”
“So is stringing each other along.”