Page 14 of Dean's Delinquent

Soft music tinkles out into the night, transforming what easily could have been a disastrous scene into something almost magical. All the other women look stunning in their designer gowns as they flit in and out of the doorway, telling me I did the right thing wearing my Rene Ruiz. Dad thought it was impractical to bring such an expensive dress to school with me, but I was right that I might need something fancy.

“Name?”

I glance up at the man guarding the door and give him the largest smile I can muster. “Hartwell. Ashleigh Hartwell.”

Normally, just saying my last name garners a look of intrigue at the very least and outright admiration at the most. This man, however, seems completely unaffected by me. For the second time this evening, I feel very ill at ease and out of place.

Honestly, just being a Hartwell should garner me access right away. Unfortunately, he stands there and slides his pen down the list of names as if I’m just some common school girl wanting to sneak in and attempt to hang out with the big boys. This just won’t do.

As much as I hate relying on my family to get things done, sometimes it’s the only way. My stomach drops to my feet as I contemplate what I need to do. Though I can certainly wait for Dean Anderson to come rescue me, I’d rather not if I can help it.

Sliding my perfectly manicured nail onto the top of the sheet, I tap it a few times, drawing his attention back to me. “I said, Ashleigh Hartwell. Daughter of Jackson and Emilia Hartwell? Surely there’s a spot for me.” Even as I say that and bat my eyes, my stomach churns, threatening to rebel.

With a soft clearing of his throat, he yanks the list away as if I’ve sullied it somehow. That was all for nothing, it seems. Typical that I would debase myself and have nothing to show for it.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hartwell are already inside. You, however, are not on the list. I’ll have to ask you to step aside.”

Why am I at all surprised to know they’ll be here? There’s no way they’re donating money on my behalf. No doubt, Dad doesn’t want me to upstage my brothers. I’m sure if he flashes enough cash, they’ll be transferred here by next semester.

Is it too much to want something just for me? It’s bad enough they steal my thunder at every passing moment, but to potentially upstage the one accomplishment I made on my own? Somehow it’s even worse than knowing I’ll be facing my parents far sooner than I planned.

Holding my head high, I move to step to the side when a warm hand grabs my arm and keeps me to the spot. I don’t even have to look to know it’s him. Dean Anderson’s spicy cologne swirls about my head, threatening to make my knees buckle. It’s the same as he wore earlier when he was paddling me, only now it’s refreshed and far more potent.

“Not running away so quickly, are you Miss Hartwell? I thought you were made of sterner stuff than that.”

I turn to face the man whose very presence torments me and plaster on a fake smile. “Seems as if my name was conveniently left off the list. I figured you’d rather I slip away than make a scene.” When his lips turn down into a fierce frown, my stomach flips, sending those butterflies back up my throat until I nearly choke on them.

“Not convenient. Last minute.” Leaning past me, he nods to the bouncer. “She’s with me. My plus one.”

“As you wish, Sir. Enjoy the evening.”

With a dashing smirk, he holds his arm out and waits for me to grab it before ushering us inside. Thankfully, he keeps his steps slow, so I don’t trip on the hem of my dress or somehow twist an ankle in these ridiculous heels. Yet, miraculously, even with them on, he towers over me. Next to him, I feel small but safe, a conundrum if I’ve ever had one.

“I was thinking you wouldn’t show. It’s not like you to be so late.”

“How do you know my proclivities? It’s not as if we’ve been to any other functions together.” My imagination plays tricks on me as I swear his pupils dilate a touch.

“No, but I do have access to all school records. You seem to be quite the over achiever who’s always in class far earlier than the others.”

Heat crawls up my neck as he brings me over to the table and holds out the chair for me. “Is it wrong to not want to have to rush or fight with others to get the best seat in the room?”

“No. It just makes me curious as to why you’d wait until the last minute to show up.”

My lips slip into a practiced smirk as I force my tone to remain even. “Well, it’s not as if I have to search for a seat, now do I? You already told me where I’d be sitting. I merely had to trust it would be available when I arrived.”

“Touché,” he laughs.

The rich, full-bodied sound travels through me, making everything clench in need. What the hell is wrong with me? I got off not that long ago. I should be good for at least a week or two.

Needing to distract myself, I glance about the room, studying the people there. Unfortunately, I end up locking eyes with my mother. If she’s at all shocked I’m here, she doesn’t show it. But then, she also doesn’t alert my father.

Instead, she places her hands on her shoulders and pushes them back, motioning for me to sit up straighter. Smothering a wince, I urge my back to become even more ramrod until she finally smiles and goes back to talking with those at her table. Pain lances through my body, but I grit my teeth and bare it.

I just have to get through tonight. As a Hartwell, it should be no difficulty at all. As just Ashleigh, a little bit more inside of me dies.

ChapterSix

Dean Anderson

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