Page 69 of Breaking Point

“Ms. Hughes.”

I hear over my shoulder, and I turn to see Crew, proffering a crystal glass. Surprised, I take it, eying him carefully. “Thank you.”

Chase inflates, fists forming at his side. Crew ignores him, shifting a step closer as his gaze finds Aleks. “Hey, Kid. Good to see you out of the house.”

“You got guard duty tonight, huh?”

“Wouldn’t risk missing a party like this,” he smirks, but it doesn’t dissolve the tension in the air as Chase and Crew meet eyes again.

“How’s Taylor?” Aleks begins, and I swallow down a sip of my drink, surprised when I find it’s a lemony, sweet mocktail.

How he got it, I don’t know since the bar is slammed busy.

I glance at him again, noticing a muscle in his jaw feather. The look on Chase’s face is all anger. Maybe that’s why I step closer toward Crew, my arm brushing his chest. He doesn’t move away, listening to something Aleks is saying.

I excuse myself, offering a quiet “Bathroom” when Crew raises a brow. I make my way beneath the stairs to the washroom. The door opens- only someone stumbles out, ramming my chest with enough force that I stumble back.

“Dammit,” the man curses, and when his bloodshot eyes find mine, I realize… It’s my father.

“Button, so sorry. I didn’t see you.” He squeezes my shoulders to steady me. Only he won’t meet my eye. Instead, he uses a hand to brush some dust off his jacket. “You okay?” he asks, wiping his nose.

“I’m fine,” I say, my gut churning as he wipes his nose again.

“Enjoying the party?” he asks quickly, and when I nod, he smiles, heading back to the group he’d been talking with earlier.

But even as I stroll inside the lounge before the bathrooms, I can’t shake the odd feeling.

Why was my father in the lounge? And what was the powder on his jacket?

Chapter Thirty-Two

Olivia

Most of the night, I’m staring at the wall in the dark, desperately trying to flip the switch inside me that makes my thoughts race. My father is at the forefront of most of them. I can’t stop thinking about Midsummer’s. About his erratic behavior- his mood switches.

On, off. On, off.

If only that’s how thoughts really worked. I turn on my side, flipping my pillow so the cool side is pressed to my cheek.

Minutes wander by, and with a sigh, I throw my legs over the bed and stand. It’s quiet outside my room, and I take it as a good sign to go to the kitchen and quietly brew a cup of tea. I sit on the couch and stare at the TV with Chesna on the entertainment center, sleeping soundly.

In the dark, the only light comes from the city lights blazing from the distance. It’s just enough light for me to see the faint shape of the world around me. Of the plants hanging from my bookshelves and the knick-knacks displayed around the room.

The mug of tea is scalding against my palm, and I take slow sips in hopes of the warmth slowly lulling me to sleep. But there’s no such luck.

I’m frustrated. I’m turned on. I haven’t had a release in weeks… and the past few days have only made things worse.

Because I’ve felthim. I’ve felt his hands between my legs, his breath on my neck. Now that I’ve had a glimpse, there’s no way I’ll forget it. I set my mug aside, dragging my fingers through my hair.

It was just his hands, for god’s sake!

The door opens down the hall. Then he’s standing against the wall. Even in the dark, the outline of his silhouette is imposing. His presence is warm and intoxicating andthere.

“You’re having trouble sleeping too,” he says, voice gruff from sleep. His words go straight to my chest, tugging at every fraying, jagged piece of me that’s close to falling apart. I’m glad he can’t see the way my hands shake..

“I can’t sleep. I can’t relax. I’m just-“ I stop myself with a sigh.

“You’re just…” he starts. “What?” His voice drops, suddenly flooded with heat. “You know... I heard you last night.”

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