Page 12 of Hurt

Willow ignored the dollar bills that floated to the stage. They weren’t important to her right now. Right now, she needed to crack that icy exterior. Roland was going to show her something, anything.

The song ended, and Willow stepped off the stage. There was a hushed murmur of confusion—Sid looked puzzled and frightened. He waved his hands at Willow to get her to stop, but he was promptly ignored.

Prowling right for Roland, Willow dropped her hands on the arms of the chair and dropped her face until she was inches from Roland’s.

“Did you enjoy my dance?” she asked coyly, batting her long lashes.

Roland stared back at her evenly. “Yes.”

Willow narrowed her eyes in frustration. “Is that so?” She leaned closer, letting her lips just barely brush against Roland’s jade-like ear. “You come here every night, and you watch every dancer…”

Roland sat back, dropping his crossed leg to create more room between them.

Mistake.

Willow pounced, straddling him and wrapping her arms around his neck. “It hurts my feelings when you watch the other dancers, Roland.” She drew out his name, letting the last syllable fall from her lips.

Roland didn’t move. His eyes were firmly on Willow’s, holding her with that pointed stare of his and keeping his hands at his side. From the corner of her eye, Willow could see Kurt come around the bar, arms crossed and face wary. Willow shot him a lascivious wink, and he scowled back.

“What? Don’t you like me, Roland?” She pouted. “Or maybe you need to relax?”

Leaning back, she extended a long arm until she could reach the next table, plucking a glass of amber liquid that smelled like Tequila. The former owner of the drink didn’t seem to mind having his glass taken, rather enthused with the show.

Willow made sure to wiggle her hips as she settled back and offered Roland the drink.

“Drinking is not allowed,” Roland said evenly, his tone not having shifted in the slightest.

“Oh,” Willow said with a wicked grin. “Then don’t mind if I do.”

She tipped the glass into her mouth. A droplet of the strong drink slid down her chin and dribbled down her throat to land in the hollow of her neck. Roland’s keen eyes followed that drop. His hands clenched into fists.

Licking the alcohol off her lips, Willow offered it to him again. “Don’t worry. It’s really smooth.” She cocked her head. “But you look like you might enjoy something that packs a little more…punch.”

Taking another swallow of the drink, Willow ducked down and pressed her lips to Roland’s. She kissed him deeply, pressing her chest to him and nudging his shocked lips open to spill the alcohol between them.

There was a beautiful moment of heat—the burn from the Tequila and the electricity from their kiss. Roland parted his lips and the acerbic liquid spilled between them.

Suddenly Roland jumped up, knocking Willow on her ass and sending the chair skittering backward. Elijah was by his side in a moment. He didn’t reach for a weapon, but he was ready to get between them.

Kurt appeared behind Willow, standing between her and Roland.

Roland’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. And then another. Finally, he smoothed his jacket, hands faltering over the wet Tequila that stained the front. Without a word, he turned and walked out of The Sunspot.

Elijah scrambled after him, smiling at Willow and Kurt politely before tossing a wad of cash on the table and following his boss out into the parking lot.

Willow didn’t hear Kurt begin to lecture her. She didn’t hear Sid’s quiet pleas for him to stop yelling or Evan cackling behind them while he fanned himself with a battered menu.

All she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. Amber eyes flashed in her mind, and the cold scent of Roland’s cologne mixed with Tequila was strong in her nose. She reached up and touched her lips. They tingled from the alcohol. The taste was still strong on her lips, sticky and a little sweet.

Roland had kissed her back.

Roland was already in the car by the time Elijah made it to the parking lot. He pulled the keys from his pocket and slipped into the driver’s side. Glancing up into the rearview mirror, he saw his boss staring at the window.

His legs were crossed, and to a stranger, he might look completely normal. But Elijah had grown up watching Roland. Had wanted to be him. He spent his childhood following him around, trailing him and mimicking everything he did. He could tell by the way Roland’s legs were tightly crossed that he was uncomfortable.

The tips of his ears were bright pink, and his eyes were wide, blown with whatever emotion he was struggling to comprehend. The corner of his lips was tight. Slender fingers were digging into the car’s upholstery, the rings on his knuckles glinting in the overhead light from the car. The rings were blocky and didn’t match the refined elegance that Roland exuded, but Elijah had never seen him without them.

Elijah’s phone dinged, and he picked it up before starting the car.