Page 6 of The Bane of a Sinner
George glared at me like a challenge, and I knew I had to choose my next words carefully. I tasted blood in my mouth, thecoppery tang a stark contrast to the sickly-sweet scent of liquor that permeated the room.
“I’m not playing games, George. You know I wouldn’t risk everything I’ve worked for. I just felt responsible for her. She seemed lost, out of place.” I paused, choosing my next words carefully. “I didn’t want her to fall into the wrong hands. You know how things can get out of hand here.”
George’s eyes narrowed, his gaze assessing me for any sign of deception. “And what hands would those be, boy? You think I can’t control the men in my own fucking club? That I’d let some young girl be taken advantage of?”
Fuck yes, I believe that.
Yet, there was a warning in his tone, a silent threat that sent a shiver down my spine. I fucking knew not to answer that question. The fact was, I knew exactly who George Stone was and what he was capable of, and until I could prove it, I had to play along and bide my time. Even if I wanted to gut the motherfucker from asshole to pie-hole.
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” he sneered. “Go fuck the bitch and then get rid of her. I see her around my club again, bitch won’t see the next sunrise. Get me, boy?”
I nodded quickly, moving toward the door. “Yes, Prez.”
Stepping out of George’s office, I felt like I’d just walked through a furnace, as my skin prickled with the heat of his anger. The young woman was still there, standing next to Montana with her eyes wide and anxious, clearly having overheard George’s threat. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile, but inside, my stomach churned. I knew George’s words weren’t an empty warning; he’d make good on his promise to get rid of her if she overstayed her welcome.
“Let’s get you out of here,” I murmured, taking her elbow and steering her through the crowd.
I could feel the weight of George’s gaze on my back as we wove our way toward the stairs. When we hit the second floor, I grabbed her hand and hurried down the hall toward my room. Once inside, I quickly shut the door and locked it, leaning my back against the door and sighing.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t helped me.”
I saw a mix of gratitude and something else—a spark of determination in her eyes, and I nodded. “Sure. No problem. I’m August, by the way,” I added, offering her a hand. “And you are?”
She smiled up at me, taking my hand, and said, “Diana. Diana Cooper.”
Chapter Three
Diana
Early the next morning...
After leaving the clubhouse, August took me to a small café close to the campus, and inside, the faintest trace of dark roast clung to the air, a lingering whisper of our all-night talk. Sunrise painted the eastern sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges, mirroring the kaleidoscope of emotions swirling inside me. His laughter still echoed in the quiet street, a counterpoint to the city’s nascent hum. Even the silences between us had been comfortable, filled with the unspoken understanding that only comes with hours of shared thoughts, of everything and nothing.
August Lansing’s gaze held mine captive—a startling clarity behind eyes that seemed to see right through me, and a gentleness that belied the sharp wit that danced on his tongue. As I fumbled with my stiff key, the metal cold against my numb fingers, he hesitated, his hand disappearing into the deep pocket of his worn tweed coat. The only sound was the soft scrape of his shoe against the pavement.
“Diana,” he breathed, the word a fragile thing in the pre-dawn stillness. “I’d like to see you again... if you’d like.”
His sincerity was a palpable thing, a warmth that chased away the icy grip of impending responsibilities—the looming threats, and my whispered secrets I hadn’t yet revealed. The click of my lock was sharp, decisive, shattering the spell. The lobby’s warmth enveloped me, a comforting hug after the chill of the street.
“I’d like that very much, August,” I whispered back, my words barely audible, a secret shared only with the rising sun. His eyes, the color of the morning sky, lingered on my face, a silent promise hanging in the air. Then, a fleeting touch—the brush of his lips against my cheek, feather-light, leaving behind a trail of warmth.
He smiled, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. “I’ll call you.”
I silently nodded. Then he turned, and melted into the growing light, leaving behind only the faintest scent of coffee and the echo of a promise.
The door slammed shut, a finality that resonated in the hollow of my chest. My back pressed hard against the wood, heart a frantic drum against my ribs. August’s ghost lingered—the phantom heat of his touch still branded on my skin, an imprint of possibility that tasted like stolen honey and forbidden fruit. This fragile thread, this lifeline flung between us, hummed with a dangerous energy; a hope so fierce it felt like a brand-new, terrifying kind of vulnerability.
But the world, a cold, indifferent beast, snarled just beyond that flimsy barrier.
My shower later that morning was a brutal, physical scrubbing, a desperate attempt to wash away the lingering sweetness, to cleanse myself of a feeling so potent it threatened to consume me. I dressed mechanically, the lightness in my step a pathetic lie, a desperate mimicry of joy. Each buzz of my phone, each jarring chime of the mundane—family messages, reminders of responsibilities—chipped away at the fragile edifice of my hope, reducing it to rubble. The relentless grind of classes, the suffocating weight of impending deadlines, the gnawing anxiety of teacher’s meetings... the machinery ground on, indifferent to the tremor of longing that still vibrated deep within my bones.
Days bled into each other, a blur of lectures and looming assessments, the memory of August’s touch fading, becoming nothing but a shimmering phantom limb. Then, four days later, my phone rang. It shrieked at me, a shrill interruption in the monotone rhythm of my life. I snatched it up, voice raw. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s August. Busy?”
My breath hitched. The open textbook, a chaotic sprawl of equations and half-understood concepts, swam before my eyes. Hope, a fragile butterfly, fluttered wildly against the cage of my nerves. Nervousness, a coiled viper, threatened to strike. “Not really,” I managed, forcing a steadiness into my voice that my trembling hands betrayed. “What’s up?”
Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, pregnant with unspoken desires and anxieties. “Coffee tomorrow morning? Same place? That little café near campus.” His voice was a tightrope walk, tentative, precious as a priceless artifact. I glanced at my calendar, a battlefield of commitments—classes, assignments, the endless, suffocating minutiae that devoured my life. A silent war raged within me. But even as I fought the tide, a desperate hunger, a fierce yearning, overwhelmed me. “I would love to,” I breathed, and heard the ghost of his smile in the tremor of his reply.
