Page 28 of Beauty and the Billionaire

The last thing that crossed my mind was the image of Zain dancing in the darkness of a club, turning around, his gaze meeting mine.

CHAPTER 8

Neon Nights

Dominic

Perhaps I was grindingmy teeth too loudly without realizing it. It drew Zain’s attention, and he shot me a nervous smile. “I can’t believe it’s really happening,” he confided.

I made myself smile back. “You’re that excited?”

He shrugged, but the smile on his face didn’t go away. Last night, he had told me about college. He’d harbored hopes that going to college would cause some cosmic miracle, after which he would simply be like everyone else. It was a wishful fantasy, one I understood well enough. “But I didn’t move to campus. And no one ever invited me to parties.”

“Parties are overrated,” I’d told him without thinking.

“I wouldn’t know,” he’d replied, ending the conversation there.

The car moved slowly but surely with the traffic in the city. It was filled with cologne scents, mixing my alpine freshness with Zain’s sweet and spicy choice. It suited him. He was like that, sweet but with a fiery streak.

He wore a black T-shirt of Orwell’s choosing. It fit him better than his regular old ones. The sleeves were a little shorter thanthe standard cut, folded once, and they revealed his long triceps and the gentle curve of his biceps. The fabric was a little tighter around his torso, letting the viewer notice the fine narrowness of his waist.

“Why didn’t you ever sneak out and go to that place if it’s so close?” I asked.

“Couldn’t,” he replied simply. “I shared my room with my sister and brothers.”

“I’m sure you would have found a way,” I said, thinking of several ways I would have done it had it mattered so much to me.

Zain bit his lip and said nothing for a long time. He looked out the window at the passing buildings, streetlights, and cars. “They’re all so…confident. I wouldn’t fit in.”

“Of course you would,” I said, not trying to flatter him at all. “You’re young, you’re gay, you’d have had a blast.”

Zain’s cheeks turned a darker shade of red. He let out a breathy laugh. “I don’t know about that. I’m not…sexy like them.”

My chest tightened like the car seat was trying to swallow me. I looked away. It was impossible to say anything to that. So I swirled the whiskey in my glass and held my breath. But the silence wasn’t comfortable at all. It was filled with patient expectation. He’d left those words there, dangling in the open, and I chewed my lower lip as I stared at my drink. Finally, almost too quietly to be heard, I said, “You’re wrong about that.”

I sensed him turning his gaze to me. From the corner of my eye, I could see the surprised—and pleased—expression on his face. I didn’t look back.

“I think we’re here,” I said once we had passed my building and Orwell turned a corner. The flashing neon sign above the entrance informed me that the destination was near, and I had failed to soothe all my reservations about this.

It wasn’t just that I disliked parties. I knew what people thought of me. For better or worse, I had a recognizable face, and I knew what they called me around these parts. Baron—a stupid nickname that was given to me for evicting a struggling digital media business after they had failed to settle their debts for an entire year. They had bitten off more than they could chew. They had approached me with so much enthusiasm that even I was moved, but none of it translated into work ethic. The ragtag group of self-styled journalists ended up eating pizza and smoking weed, writing lists of top ten whatever, hoping to go viral on the internet. And when they ran out of other people’s money, I had no choice but to take my office spaces back.

Baron of Manhattan…

There wasn’t a place in this city where I could go without at least one person calling me that. Tonight would be no different. A packed bar of rebels and runaways, as the press had called them a little while ago when they’d made headlines, was bound to have hostile feelings for one of my kind. It wouldn’t matter that I was gay. It wouldn’t matter that I was there only for the pleasure of someone who was just like them.

I held my breath as Orwell stopped the car and then exhaled. “Thank you, Orwell. That will be all for tonight.”

“I will prepare the penthouse, sir,” Orwell informed me.

“Only the bedrooms. We won’t be in the city for long.” Impatience to return to Harringford was all too audible.

“Very well, sir,” Orwell said. It didn’t escape me that he made the reply pointed, although I couldn’t tell why.

Zain and I got out of the car and stood in the cold night air in front of a brick building. A small group of people came from the opposite direction and filed into the bar. They all wore jackets over tight tank tops and tighter pants, their hair done in wild and colorful ways, and their faces painted with glitter or makeup. Their sole existence made me feel out of place and, worse, outof time. Perhaps I should have taken Orwell’s advice when he entered my dressing room earlier and asked me if I was sure about wearing a white shirt.

I balled my fists and pressed on, leading the way for Zain, who carried his warm jacket folded over his arm. His skin prickled visibly after a gust of wind rolled over us.

The chill was so sudden that the incredible warmth of the bar was overwhelmingly welcome as we walked in, shutting the door behind us. And while the music was fairly loud, and the space was filled with people, it wasn’t as aggressive as any old nightclub.We’re still early, I thought to myself, scanning the crowd.

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