Chapter 66

The One With An Unexpected Reunion: Part II — Nate’s Point Of View

NATE

As I walk around the space, I study the people around me—a stuck up, snobby, rich crowd that doesn’t have anything better to do than stand around, making conversation with those who share their financial status. Bragging about going out on yachts, luxurious trips, the latest piece of expensive jewelry, gloating about their kids getting into prestigious universities and colleges that they likely bribed their way into.

It’s all so fake. So surface level. And honestly, sad. I can’t imagine caring more about money and material items than the people around me.

Just as I’m passing a couple boasting about buying a fucking jet, I notice a woman in red and I have to do a double take.

She looks familiar, but her back is to me as she glances over her silky dress. I admire the curves of her hips, the sexy dimples at the base of her spine, the way her hair cascades down the bare skin of her back, exposed by the deep scoop of the material tight to her frame.

An ember of fire erupts within me at the sight of her. It settles deep in my abdomen, at the base of my spine as it begins to burn.

I’m only able to observe her for a moment before Langley grabs my arm, turning my attention towards him. He casually passes a few small baggies of cocaine into my open palm and I quickly tuck them away in my pocket.

Knowing I have narcotics on my person immediately sends my already frayed nerves into hyperdrive. I know they’re there no matter how hard I try to pretend they’re not—it’s like I have fucking stones in my pocket.

However, I can’t exactly object. This is what Ezra wants Langley and I to do. It’s why he brought us here—to a rich, greedy, coke-loving crowd—to begin with. He wants to make his money.

“Ezra wants you to find a guy named Matt Diamond. He wants to buy. Says he’ll be by the employees only restrooms,” Langley informs me.

I try to hide the fact that the sound of this scenario terrifies the fuck out of me. Not only do I not want to fucking sell drugs, but I sure as fuck don’t want to go and do this on my own. If I get pinched, what the fuck do I do?

I don’t fucking talk, I know that much.

“Does he want all of it?” I ask, drinking from my glass as I glance around, feigning as if we’re in the most normal of conversation.

“I’m not sure. Sometimes he wants it all, he might only want a bag or two tonight.”

I nod my head, not even sure what to answer to that. I observe Langley as he surveys the room. He’s probably subtlety keeping track of Ezra’s other lackeys, making sure they’re doing what they’re told. Making sure that they’re not getting caught or creating a scene.

When his eyes meet mine again, he instructs me, “Go.”

I finish off my drink before sauntering away from him. As I pass a waitress, I deposit the empty glass on her tray and continue along, moving through the crowd. It’s a lot of awkward apologies as I squeeze between groups and interrupt conversations, but I couldn’t really care less. I don’t want to be here just as much as they don’t want me interrupting.

Hell, I even get a few distasteful expressions as they view the ink on my neck.

Like I fucking care.

I manage to make my way to the washroom area, but I don’t see any sort of Employees Only area. There’s a shit ton of people just randomly standing around and I don’t care enough to ask them to move so I can see better. In all honesty, I don’t even really want to find this guy. I’d rather there be some miscommunication so I don’t have to participate in yet another crime.

As if they aren’t fucking adding up already.

As if, if I were to get pinched tomorrow I would do less than ten years.

I pay attention to the fact that everyone standing around seems to be guests, just as someone wearing a uniform passes me. I decide to try following him, hoping he’ll lead me somewhere, so it at least looks like I made the effort to Ezra.

I can’t help but feel like I have to make it appear as if I’m trying my hardest, even if that’s not the reality. He seems to always have eyes everywhere, so it’s the only way to be safe.

He leads me into a kitchen and I act as if I belong. I’m glad for the tattoos when someone looks at me like I shouldn’t be in here, but then he sees the wings inked into my neck and he seemingly shrugs it off.

Probably thinks I’m a part of security.

I don’t see any guests in here—beside myself—as I peer at the room full of cooks and waitstaff.

I head deeper into the building, not even sure where I’m going at this fucking point.

When I saunter around the corner looking for the man I’m supposed to find, I find myself lost in the maze of unfamiliar hallways. I’m about to turn around and head back—since the guy clearly isn’t back here when I hear a gasp.

I panic, trying to hide behind a partial wall, unsure of who is back here. My heart races, on edge as I wait for someone to suddenly jump out at me.

I wait a few seconds, maybe a minute, until my heart begins to settle and I’m positive that whomever it is, doesn’t know I’m here.

Leaning around the corner, I peer around the room until my eyes find who made the noise and my heart literally aches.

The woman in the red dress is Arielle.

And right now, some man has her pressed up against the wall with his mouth hot to her neck and her fingers tangled in his hair.

Instantly, the urge consumes me to charge across the room, tear him from her body and repeatedly ram my fist into his face. Some sort of primate-like, outdated, misogynistic instinct in me rises to the surface, as if I’m about to pound my fists to my chest and claim my territory.

What the fuck is going on? Who is this fucking guy? I don’t recognize him, but I also can’t see him. I’m staring at his back, I can’t even manage to tell if his hair is black or brown in this lighting.

I observe as he cups her jaw, reuniting their mouths. They snog—heavily—and I grip my chest as the pain intensifies.

I know that I told Arielle to move on. I know that I told her shit was over between us. I can see that she’s done exactly as I’ve asked, but it still fucking hurts, I can’t deny that.

Seeing the woman I love, happily thrusting her tongue in someone else’s mouth is hard. It’s enough to shatter my heart into a million tiny fragments, as if it was the most fragile piece of China.

I guess I never expected her to move on so quickly. We were only separated for a few months, I’ve barely had time to register the fact that we’re broken up, let alone imagine her—or myself, for that matter—happy with another person.

I’m still in the grieving process of having lost the best thing to ever happen to me. And I know everyone handles grief differently, however I can’t control the way I’m feeling.

I can’t help that it angers me to see someone else’s hands all over her. That rage sears through my veins—acidic like poison—when she leans into him.

It’s an immediate reaction of hurt and it’s completely justified. With everything I’ve been through, it feels like she doesn’t care about me as much as she once said she did. Not when she’s able to push me aside and jump to the next available relationship so quickly.

And I hate that I fucking feel like that because deep down, I know that she’s not like that. Again, it could be the way she grieves a relationship and I must keep reminding myself of that fact. To not pass judgement because what I’m seeing doesn’t necessarily mean anything of depth.

When I glance back around the corner, they’re resting their foreheads together, exhaling heavily. It’s like a fucking porno on low volume as I listen to the heavy pants exchanged between the two aroused bodies.

I move to hide, feeling wrong for watching them. They have no idea I’m here and are clearly sharing an intimate moment together, while I’m the fucking creep.

As I take a step back to further shield myself from their vision behind a wall, I hit something and I wince when there’s a loud crash! and a white mug falls to the flooring. I’ve knocked some sort of cart filled with dishes and luckily only one thing broke.

I hear the man speak in the other room, but from where I’m standing, I’m unable to make it out. However, they don’t seem bothered by the fact that I’ve broken something—in fact, it appears they believe it was simply the staff somewhere else in the building.

Arielle never tears her eyes away from the man’s as she slips her hands beneath the hem of her dress and under the waistband to her knickers. My mouth dries—too distracted to remind myself who she’s doing this for—as she drags the material down her long, beautiful legs until she’s able to step out of them.

I’m so lost in her, in her beauty, that I almost get hard. However, I look away just as she leans forward so that her lips are to the shell of his ear and she clearly puts her knickers in his pocket.

He says something to her, too low for my ears at this distance.

“Call it incentive—” is all I’m able to make out.

I ball my hand into a fist, trying not to reminisce about us. About times like this that we’ve had together.

I’m not stupid to the fact that she’s a very sexual person—so am I—but I can’t help that it stings to see her doing these things for somebody who isn’t me. Because in some other universe, she would be doing it for me.

She’d be depositing her knickers into my pocket. Fuck, I’d have her wearing the vibrating knickers through dinner again, just for the fun of it.

Fuck this entire situation.

I’m stuck between a rock and a fucking hard place. I love her. I fucking love Arielle Hawthorne with everything I am, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t be with her. I can’t hold her hand. I can’t kiss her. I can’t do anything unless Ezra Sullivan tells me I can.

By the time he grabs her hand and intertwines their fingers to pull her to follow him, I’m so angry and hurt that it causes physical pain throughout my body. I feel a headache forming and I need a fucking cigarette.

I scurry out of the way, glad to see them walk past me without noticing me. Arielle stops the guy she’s with right before they enter the main space to wipe her lipstick from his skin.

I keep my distance, following behind quietly while I observe their body language. She’s clearly very into him and it only makes my anger increase tenfold.

I hate that I’m feeling like this, but a part of me—some tiny little dark and nefarious zone inside me—is screaming of some sense of entitlement. That, after everything I’ve been through—the jail, the beatings, the gunshot, the stab wound, the daily hell that is working alongside Langley and Ezra—she should be running back to me with open arms. She should be screaming in joy and kissing me.

Is that fucked?

It’s so selfish to even think about because everything I’ve done, I’ve done it for her but it’s not something she’s asked of me. I’ve done it all, I’ve endured it all because I love her. Because it’s the right thing to do.

And in some circumstance, because I was forced to. I didn’t have any other option.

But the point is, even if I’m forced to do it, I’m ultimately doing so because I’m trying to protect her. Because I love her so intensely that I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she’s safe and happy.

Even if that happiness isn’t with me.

The moment before they enter the main hall, they distance from one another. So far as to take a literal step apart and I raise an eyebrow, trying to decipher what it means.

Are they dating in secret? Is he married? Is his boss here? Is he employed here as a waiter or guard? Did she tell him that Ezra is here and is trying to save face?