My fist clenched at my side. Nothing more fun than watching my cousin torture a girl that I could potentially like.
And when I say like — I mean it. She had brown eyes and dark hair. I hated to admit I was a sucker for both. She was sexy, innocent, untouchable, and I wanted her for myself, even if she was going to be a giant pain in the ass for the next few months.
He took her hand.
And led her onto the dance floor.
They were close. I was supposed to be doing a perimeter check, and all I could focus on was his hand on the small of her back. Since when did he make business so personal?
And then all hell broke loose.
I couldn’t hear what he said. All I heard was shouting and then, “Trust me, Farm Girl. I don’t care how much makeup you put on or how expensive your clothes may be. I don’t even give a rat’s ass that half the student body likes you right now. You are charity. I wouldn’t even screw you if you paid me. So, the answer is no. And next time you feel like showing up to one of my school’s parties, at least have the decency to wear some new shoes.”
I froze.
We’d done a lot of shitty stuff to people. But honestly, in that moment, killing her would have been kinder. She reared back as if she’d just been slapped, and then Mo was instantly by her side.
“Tex—”
I didn’t need to be told twice. In that moment, I made my choice, and it was her. Not Nixon. I didn’t care that he was my boss, that he would probably kill me next time he saw me.
I just wanted to know she was okay.
I wanted to wipe her tears — I wanted to kiss them away. Nobody deserved that — physical wounds were a blessing compared to emotional scarring, and what he’d just done to her would be such a deep scar that the best shrinks would take years to stop the bleeding.
That’s what shame was.
Shaming someone in front of others was our torture at Eagle Elite, and he’d just accomplished it beautifully.
“Get away from me!” Trace screamed when I walked to her side. I gripped her arm, not caring that she wanted to scratch my eyes out, only caring that she still had fight left in her.
The three of us walked in silence across campus.
When we reached the dorms, she began to shake. I didn’t know what to do to fix it. She reached in her purse but couldn’t seem to get her hands past the barrier of the half-opened zipper.
With a curse, I pulled out my card and swiped it across the access code for the elevator.
My hand naturally fell to her back as I gently pushed her in.
The elevator was big — but it may as well have been a shoebox. Every breath she took, every shudder that wracked her body destroyed my sanity.
I wanted to touch her.
Instead, I did the only thing I knew I could do that wouldn’t flag me as being disloyal to blood.
I stood as close as possible. My hand hovered near her skin, feeling like it was damn-near singeing from the heat her body was giving off.
When we finally made it into their room, Mo started yelling.
“He’s an ass! I know I shouldn’t defend him, but if he would have known they were your grandma’s shoes—”
I put my hand in the air. “I don’t get it. What’s so important about—”
“She’s dead, you asshole!”
Yeah. I’d forgotten that.
Like a complete jackass.
Trace’s face fell as more tears streamed across her plump lips.
And the pieces of the puzzle fell together. Yes, she was upset about what Nixon had done, but even when he shamed her in front of everyone it wasn’t the fact that he’d embarrassed her — it was the fact that he’d unintentionally ripped her heart out and stomped on it.
By the looks of her clothes on the first day, she didn’t have a lot of money or possessions, meaning only one thing. The shoes from her Grandma? Probably one of the only things she had of value.
With a curse, I stomped out of the room. Tex followed, eerily quiet for a guy who normally talked his ass off.
“So…” Tex shoved his hands in his pockets once we were in the safety of the elevator. “…that was—”
“Shut the hell up,” I barked and stormed out of the elevator so he wouldn’t follow me.
Tex barked out a laugh and went in the opposite direction. With shaking hands, I dialed the number to the closest supplier.
“I need your most expensive boots from the new spring collection.”
“I’d be happy to help you with your purchase, sir, but you need to know those specific boots are—”
“Get them for me. Now. I need them by six.”
“Six?”
“In the morning,” I said slowly. “Size nine.”
“Of course, sir.”
The line went dead.