Page 79 of Delay of Game

Sam asks me to open my legs up again, but I ignore him, readjusting my hair and fidgeting with my bracelets some more. He groans in frustration but takes some more pictures in the same pose. I keep my legs firmly closed together the whole time and don’t hear what he says next due to the loud music.

“You really need to open up those pretty legs of yours.” He speaks up, but the music cuts out abruptly, so it sounds more like he’s yelling it at me. We both look over to the speaker on the wall and?—

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

A very intimidating, very angry Jordan is staring menacingly at Sam, the speaker cord dangling from his hand.

“Or what?” he says, voice deep and darker than I’ve ever heard it.

Sam takes a visible step back from me and swallows.

“This is a private session,” Sam tries to say, and Jordan chuckles, dropping the cord and taking a few slow steps forward.

I’m frozen to the spot, and I don’t even dare look for my robe that got discarded on the floor somewhere. My eyes are glued to Jordan, and I wonder what he’ll do. Would he punch Sam for me? Protect my honor?

Am I into this?

I shake my head, and Jordan glances at me. His expression is not one I can decipher, but I hold his gaze nonetheless, trying to communicate how uncomfortable this random guy is making me.

Jordan’s jaw clenches and he turns back to Sam.

“This session is over. Leave.”

“Whatever, this is the worst photoshoot I’ve ever done anyway. Thanks for the free money,” Sam says bitterly, and tries to get past Jordan, but he doesn’t get far.

Jordan grabs Sam by the collar of his shirt and pulls him close to eye level, which is a ridiculous sight—Sam, five foot eight, on his tiptoes in front of J.

“I don’t care who you are or why you’re here, but you better leave.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing and slowly stand up, finding my robe and throwing it back on to at least cover my almost-naked butt.

Sam scoffs and picks up his tools, shoving them in his bag as fast as possible. Before he can put his camera away, Jordan snatches it away, pulling out the SD card.

“Hey, that’s my property.”

“Not anymore,” Jordan says, shoving the camera back in Sam’s chest.

Sam cowers in front of Jordan’s glare but turns to me and says, “I’m gonna bill you for that.”

“You’re never going to speak to her again. And you’re going to lose her number too, while you’re at it,” Jordan says, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet.

Frankly, Sam doesn’t deserve any more money for being such an asshole, but I don’t want to make the situation worse.

I’m grateful for Jordan as he kicks the nasty photographer out of my apartment, but I’m dreading the silence that follows. Jordan’s back is to me, and I can see his muscles shifting underneath his white T-shirt as he takes in heavy breaths, the fists at his side clenching and unclenching.

I’ve seen every version of Jordan throughout the years—happy, sad, depressed, neutral, excited, angry—but never furious Jordan. I take a step closer and my heels clack againstthe hardwood floor. Jordan’s shoulders stop moving, almost like he’s stopped breathing. Is he mad at me? Disappointed?

I can’t stand his anger pointed at me, so I bite back my tears and rush forward to hug him. My arms go around his torso, my hands curling into his soft shirt, my head between his shoulder blades.

“J, I don’t know why you came, but I’m so glad you did.” I squeeze him harder whispering, “Thank you, thank you.” I expect him to turn around, hug me back, or at least acknowledge what I said, but he doesn’t.

“J?” I say, and slowly drop my hands, thinking maybe I’ve crossed the line with a hug.

Jordan hangs his head and turns around to face me, a sad smile on his lips. “You haven’t called me that in a really long time,” he says in a gruff voice.

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