Page 11 of You Were Never Not Mine

Conversing with a woman all night while at a party isn’t something I normally do either but this woman is an exception. Have I just fallen for the “she’s not like other girls” nonsense?

Apparently so.

She waves a hand as if she’s sweeping away what I just said, a little hiccup escaping her. She immediately covers her mouth with said hand, her eyes widening all over again. “You’re drunk,” she murmurs from beneath her palm.

“No, I think you’re the drunk one.” I lean forward, carefully removing her hand from her face so I can stare at her unabashedly. “Tell me your name.”

“Nope.” She shakes her head again and again. To the point I worry she’s going to make herself dizzy. “I’m not telling.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Life is unfair.” Her eyes narrow. “Someone said that to me once.”

Lots of people say that sort of shit all the damn time. “Who told you that?”

“No one important.”

“The person must’ve been somewhat important if you remember them saying that to you.”

“Fine.” She sighs, the sound almost sad. “My high school bully said it to me after one particular sadistic moment where he tortured me.” It’s her turn to lean in close and I catch the scent of her perfume. It’s rich and sweet and makes my nose twitch in a good way. In aI want to bury my face in her neckway.

“Tortured you?” I can hear the anger in my voice. Does she notice? And who the hell would torture her? She’s gorgeous. Interesting.

“Not literally, but he was awful. Made my life miserable for an entire year when I was in high school.”

“Tell me his name and I’ll ruin him,” I practically growl. “Financially. Socially. Whatever you want. I’ll destroy him.”

She throws her head back and laughs and laughs, like I just told her the most hilarious joke. All I can do is watch her, mesmerized by her, and I can’t even explain why. She’s not impressed by me whatsoever, and I’m used to every person I meet being impressed by me just by hearing my last name. Every woman I encounter wants to get my dick inside her in the hopes that I’ll fall madly in love with them and want to marry them. I can treat them like absolute garbage and they lap up my treatment like I’m spoiling them. It’s so fucking bizarre. And disappointing.

Not this girl. She claims she doesn’t know who I am and I tend to believe her. She doesn’t mention anything about theLancaster family and she’s very much at ease with me, despite her reluctance to tell me anything.

There are diamonds in her ears and Van Cleef jewelry hanging from her neck and wrist, which means she definitely comes from money, but so many people who go to this school are wealthy. She’s also classy. Her clothing isn’t garish and her shoes look expensive, and when you’ve been around wealthy people your entire life, you can just tell. She has that rich girl air about her, but she’s oblivious to who I am and I like it.

And I never thought I’d like that sort of thing. I revel in being August Lancaster. I act like a dick because everyone allows me the privilege. The only person I’m not a dick to is my mother. That woman is a saint. She has to be to stay with my father, because dear old Dad is a bigger dick than I ever could be. I aspire to be exactly like him one day and work hard to emulate Whit Lancaster in every way possible. To the point that it’s become second nature. Most of the time, I do a damn good job of it too.

Not tonight though.

“I’m serious,” I tell her when the laughter finally dies. “I’ll take him out. I know people.”

I sound like a mafioso, which is fucking ridiculous, but it’s true. I do know people who can do all sorts of things for a price, like my uncle Spencer. When money is no object, you have access to people and their services that the common man wouldn’t be able to fathom.

“I appreciate the offer.” Her smile is blinding, it’s so big. “But he’s already dead to me.”

Chapter Six

SINCLAIR

The man is oblivious.

Gorgeous and sexy and drunk too, but also completely oblivious to my identity, and I thought he’d recognize me the instant he saw me. Not that I think heshouldremember me. I wasn’t that memorable to him back in the day when I was a fourteen-year-old, painfully shy, brace-face with no boobs and awkward AF. Sometimes when I’m being real with myself, I can look back and recognize exactly why he made fun of me. I was ripe for the picking, as the old saying goes. Naïve and vulnerable and desperate to belong. I felt out of place, out of my league and scared out of my mind. He could probably smell the desperation emanating from me and honed right in.

“If you ever need me to take him down, I’m your man,” he says with the utmost sincerity. Would he be angry if I started laughing again? Because I’m close to cracking. “But if you want my help, I do have some criteria that needs to be met first.”

“Criteria? Such as?” I sound like I’m teasing. Flirting. Finally. I never feel comfortable enough to flirt with any guy—Iget too in my head. But I guess all it took was a boatload of horribly strong scotch to loosen me up.

His expression turns deadly serious. “I need to know a few…facts about you first.”

“Like what?” I ask warily.

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