Page 18 of Burned By Sin
“Don’t lose your temper. Just listen to what he has to say, and we can continue this back in your room.” I force a weak smile, lifting my rosé bottle. It might not have been a perfect night, but this is the first time Rhys and Clay have willingly been in a room together. I want it to last just a little longer. Except Rhys can’t resist showing off when he has the upper hand.
“Our room,” Rhys grabs my ass and hauls me into him, his cocky glare antagonizing Clayton. A sweep of cold air hits my back as Clay exits, the reprieve we’d found thoroughly broken. I rush after him, shoving the bottle into the security guard’s hand as I pass.
I’m by no means graceful as I follow Clay’s large frame through the casino, oblivious to the shrill of slot machines and amused patrons around me. My phone is back on the poker table, overhearing trickles of Rhys’ conversation with his father. The disjointed sound is jarring against my surroundings, closely pressed bodies trying to prevent me from passing. I’m not as wide and forceful as Clayton, carving a path through the lobby.
Pushing against a robust gold handle, I step out into the night, a crescent moon hanging overhead in the midnight sky. Clay pauses when he notices I’ve burst into the street, my dress doing little to bar me from the icy chill. I shiver, longing to step into Clay’s arms. Aching to earn his trust back so he doesn’t feel like a stranger once again. Jerking his chin to indicate I should go back inside, Clay begins to walk away, and I storm after him.
“That’s it?!” I call, unaware of how loud I’m speaking. “After all of the ground we’ve covered tonight, you’re going to walk away?” He turns slowly, his features falling into shadow. The unevenness of his blond waves are unnatural to me, peeling away from the gel he tried to smooth it down with. Clay visually searches for my phone or a mini microphone, and when he comes up empty, he pulls his own from his pocket.
‘What do you want from me?’ Clay types on his notes and turns the screen to face me. I wince at the sudden bright light, my head starting to throb. I step closer, lowering his phone from view. My heels put me at a six-inch advantage, but Clay still towers over me.
“I’m trying to be patient, Clay. I know you’ve been hurt, but I had no part in it. I just want…I want…” Clay’s head tilts, his face illuminated from the casino’s light leaking through the glass door.
“What?” he mouths.
“You.” Closing the rest of the gap, I press my body against his. Bolstered by too much rosé and too little food, my mouth lands on his. He tries to resist, to step away on instinct, but I won’t let him. We’re too far adrift for words to pull us back to shore. He needs to taste my apology, to feel my need for him to stay close. The savior I never asked for, but can no longer be without. Finally, after an eternity of awkwardness, Clay’s lips respond to mine.
My hands fist his shirt, our mouths uniting in a heated struggle to portray emotion. Unlike the raw power Rhys’ kisses provide, Clay’s lips are soft and tender. He doesn’t rush, he savors. He doesn’t fight for control, but willingly lets me have it. I slip my tongue into his mouth, urging his to dance with mine. Butterflies fill my stomach as his large hands take residence on my nape and lower back. His muscles squeeze around me like a cocoon of safety.
My fuzzy mind runs away with me, tapdancing on cloud nine somewhere in the distance, but words echo within my damaged ears.This feels like home. This is home. Safe, reliable home.
All too soon, Clayton pulls away, although not far enough to release me. I rest my head against his shoulder, breathing in the woodsyscent I had begun to forget, despite how hard I tried to cling onto it. His stubble scratches my temple as we stand rooted in place, as if the moment we break apart, everything will be shattered again.
“Please come back to Waversea.” I beg, winding my arms around his waist, talking into his chest. “Not for me. Do it for yourself. You started something, you have to see it through. Jeremy wanted this for you.” I know the moment I’ve gone too far when Clay’s chest tenses, his arms going stiff. Dammit. Clamping my lips shut, we remain still for at least another full minute, not ready to let go. At least, I know I’m not. As soon as I step away, I have the distinct feeling I may never see Clay again. There’s only so many times I can lose him, lose the hope of what we could have been.
His hand trails the length of my sleeve, running a smooth path to my wrist. This is it. This is where he pries me away and leaves me standing in the street. I want to be strong enough to accept the inevitable, to hold my head high and say, ‘his loss’. But instead, I cling tighter to his body. Gently curling his hand around my jaw, Clay forces me to look upwards, his mouth right in front of my eyes.
“I’ll think about it.”
Chapter Eleven
I left Harper at the casino door, telling her to go inside while I made the long walk back to my place. The night air was bitter, slicing through my shirt and straight to my bones, but I welcomed it. The cold let me think, let me scrape some clarity out of the mess in my head.
But whatever conclusion I came to, whatever optimism I convinced myself I felt, vanished the moment I approached my studio door. Two policemen were waiting to escort me down to the station, where I was held until now. Turns out Dr. Hollister had been running a state-of-the-art CCTV system with integrated audio recording. Brilliant on his part, catastrophic for me. They had me on video, laying out the plan, stabbing myself with the scalpel, so I confessed to the whole thing.
Two days later and I’m reusing the smart gray trousers and shirt Rhys bought, sighing with the weight of stress I almost escaped. The courthouse waiting room smells of stale coffee and old carpet cleaner, its retro pattern swirling beneath my shoes. Rows of wooden chairs line the walls, their armrests too narrow for someone my size. The scar under my shirt itches like hell, but I don’t scratch. I let it fester, since it’s the reason I’m sitting here in the first place.
I check my phone for the millionth time since the casino, both gladand annoyed I haven’t heard from Harper. She’s giving me space, but all that does is give me time to overthink. To wonder what the pair of them are doing, where they’re going, if they’ve even left the hotel room at all.
When I was a kid, jealousy meant hiding in the school bathroom after Christmas break so I wouldn’t have to see the other kids’ new gadgets and sneakers. It meant watching people stroll by with shopping bags I couldn’t afford, salivating over their lives from a distance. Eventually I learned, if you look hard enough, there’s always someone worse off. Someone who’d probably envy me for the family I had and the scraps of love I was given.
This jealousy is different. The image of Wavershit’s hands on Harper’s skin, the thought of his mouth on her. It eats me alive. I keep my hands clamped in my lap, resisting the urge to fidget. My hair falls into my face, shielding me from the fluorescent lights, the posters about rehabilitation, and the low murmur of felons and thugs scattered across the room. Not that I’m any better, I’m a convicted criminal too.
“Mr. Michaels?” the receptionist calls.
I stand, keeping my spine rigid as I cross the hall to the door her bony finger points to. My heart is hammering, but my face is a mask of calm. I promised myself I’d never set foot in a courthouse again. At least my mother isn’t sitting in the back row whilst her heart is breaking this time.
The district courthouse is smaller than I expected, empty wooden benches spanning either side of the dreaded walkway. I step through the gate in the center and take my seat at the left desk, utterly alone. I was offered a state attorney but I have no defense. I’m guilty, as my future is once again in the hands of the judge at the front of the room. A man with thinning black hair, a wide nose under thin glasses, and a black robe draped over his shoulders, holding my file.
To my right sits Dr. Hollister, his own attorney at his side. Neither of them look my way, their faces resolute as they listen to what the judge has to say.
“You’re an extremely lucky young man, Mr. Michaels,” he announces. I almost laugh out loud. I don’t think of myself as lucky in any sense of the word, but I keep my hands folded in front of me and my expression neutral. “Against the advice of his counsel, Dr. Hollister has taken into consideration a new piece of evidence which was presented to us this morning. Your state scholarship to Waversea Academy has been reinstated, and as such, the plaintiff decided to drop the charges against you.”
For a second, the air locks in my lungs. My head whips toward Hollister and his lawyer, but neither spares me a glance. I’d been prepared to take the jail time they were sure to give me, finding the small blessings in a place to stay and meals provided. I’m bigger now, more capable of holding my own in the prison yard.
“However,” the judge continues, “there is the cost of the medication taken and the damage to the building’s exterior to be considered. Since your accomplice could not be found, who by your own admission is a minor, we think it’s only fair you cover Dr. Hollister’s losses.”
I nod, relief loosening a knot I hadn’t realized was sitting in my chest. At least the kid got away, and maybe his mom can breathe easier for a while. Still, the guilt lingers. For the second time, Hollister has shown me kindness unlike I’ve ever known. A stranger who has offered me a future, even after I deceived him.
