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Chapter Four
Grace
“Ryan.”
When I say his name, Henley’s brother smiles. Not a real smile. More like a twitch at the corners of his mouth, fast and tight, before he diverts his attention back to the Jerkus Erectus between us. “Is there a reason you’ve got her trapped in a corner?”
“Sorry, man.” Jerkus Erectus drops his arm and turns away from me to face Ryan. “She didn’t tell me she had a boyfriend.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” Ryan says, giving him a bland smile. “She told you no—that should be sufficient, even for a rapey, little motherfucker like you.”
Jerkus Erectus shoots me a quick murderous look, like it’s my fault he’s about to be force-fed his own Rolex, before looking back at Ryan. Because he’s smarter than he looks, Jerkus holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Look—”
“Walk away, kid—before I stop feeling generous.”
Jerkus drops his hands, an audible sigh of relief pushing out of his mouth before he can stop it. He moves away from me, giving Ryan a wide birth as he scurries away to disappear behind the line of party-goers.
And just like that, we’re alone.
He’s here with Tess. I saw them walk in together. Saw the way he had his hand press against the small of her back. He likes her—that much is obvious. I expect him to walk away and leave me alone to go find her now that crisis has been averted but he doesn’t. Instead he comes toward me and offers me one of the drinks in his hand. “Fighting evil is thirsty work,” he says, the tight press of his mouth relaxing into something between a smirk and a smile when I hesitate. “It’s club soda.” The smile deepens when I reach for the glass he’s not offering me. “That’s club soda too—just club soda. I’m willing to take a drink to prove it if you don’t mind cooties.”
His offer heats my cheeks. I’m being rude. He doesn’t even know me and he swooped in and chased off an aggressive asshole for me and here I am, practically accusing him of trying to roofie me.
Quit being a paranoid asshole, Grace, and say thank you.
“I had it handled.”
Now he doesn’t just smile.
He laughs out loud.
“Of that I have no doubt.” I want to hear condescension in his tone. I expect to feel like he’s patting me on my head and telling me what a cute little kitten I am, but I don’t. He seems and sounds genuine. Still, I can’t let it go.
“Then why the rescue mission?” I ask, sounding like Molly when she’s missed a nap.
His laughter dies off and his smile winks out. “Because I was bored.” Relinquishing the glass in his hand, he moves around me to take a seat on the bench behind me. He doesn’t invite me to join him. Doesn’t try to reel me in with inane questions or mindless small talk. He just sits there like he doesn’t care where I go or what I do.
Which is why I sit down next to him.
“How do you know my name?”
“Patrick told me about ten minutes ago.” He cuts me another look, this one tinged with annoyance. “Don’t worry, haven’t you heard—I’m all sorts of fucked upstairs.” He taps his index finger against his temple. “There’s a 99.9% chance I won’t remember it come tomorrow morning—might not even remember you.”
I remember the story now. There was an explosion. The blast caused some sort of brain damage. I feel an embarrassed flush break out across my chest to creep up my neck. “Why would he do that?” I don’t like the way I sound. Angry. Defensive. Like I think he’s lying. “Tell you my name.”
“He caught me staring at you and felt the need to tell me your entire life story.” He gives me an apathetic shrug, totally unaffected by my accusatory tone. “They get excited when I show interest in just about anything these days.”
My entire life story.
That’s doubtful, considering no one knows my story. Not all of it, anyway. There are things about me and my life no one knows. Things no one will ever know. “You were staring at me?”
He takes a drink from his glass and shrugs again. “Yup.”
“Why?”
“Like I said—I was bored.”
I look at him, letting myself take in the little things about him. Up close, I can see gold and mahogany flecks in his deep brown eyes. There’s a scar on his neck, long and thin, that reaches up from the collar of his shirt and disappears around the curve of his neck and into his hairline. His hair isn’t brown. It’s red. Dark red in the glint of the gallery’s overhead lights. “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare at people?” When I say it, I can’t decide who I’m talking to—to him or to myself.