The Lion Heart (Rogue Academy Book 2)

by Carrie Aarons

  Tonight, it’s as if the club lit up a spotlight upon her arrival and is beaming it directly at all of those slim, luscious curves. The woman is tall, and it’s exaggerated by the low ceilings in this particular speakeasy-themed hotspot. She’s wearing one of those old-time flapper dresses in a light blue sheen, which only serves to make those big, gorgeous eyes pop. She’s practically spilling out of the bust, and I thank God for her Boudoir endorsement deal that supplies her with all of those enhancing undergarments.

  I’ve wanted to wrap my fist in those silky, mile-long curls streaming down her back from the moment I met her, and tonight is no different. It’s as if she knows how much her hair teases me.

  Her eyes meet mine, and I can see the small amount of friendly challenge or suggestive hope in them. It’s the kind of look that down low lovers exchange. Will we meet at the end of the night? Will we play this game?

  We played games the other day, all right. The music war was too good to pass up, and then she had to walk into the hallway in that wispy lingerie and I almost had a bloody heart attack. It had taken me less than a minute to toss one out after I slammed the door to my apartment. For weeks, since I learned that gorgeous being lived right next door, she’s been at the top of the spank bank.

  But, as I’ve demonstrated in copious amounts tonight, I don’t care about anything. Not my career, not what would happen if my parents cut me off, or how much deeper I could dig myself into this hole.

  I especially don’t care about her. Poppy Raymond, a spiteful virgin who wants to be chased but not to give anything in return. A cheeky brat that is the farthest thing from what I desire; an easy shag.

  No, my attraction to her is purely carnal, and if she’s not going to follow through on it, I shouldn’t waste my time.

  I was about to botch whatever we had going … if it was even going.

  Watch this.

  15

  Poppy

  There is a reason I never come to Le Ches.

  The place is mobbed when I walk in, the most glamorous of people lining the walls and spilling onto the multiple stages. The club is located about fifteen minutes from my flat, but I’ve avoided it until now. There are stories one hears about this place; sex on stage, VIP closed-door rooms where nothing is off the table, drugs floating around like candy … and apparently an S&M room where you can watch subs and doms interact in kink and foreplay.

  I like a drunken night out as much as the next girl, especially since I have an image to upkeep. But this place? It brings all of my nightmares to life. I’ve never dabbled in the drug scene, no matter how many tabloid stories or fake social media ads plug what drug I’m using to stay skinny this week. Although I know that there is a rulebook for kink and domination, I have zero experience in regular sexual activity. I can’t fathom how anyone would be excited about being hurt and tortured. And the whole aesthetic of this nightclub is to abandon thought and give yourself to the chaos and hedonism.

  That couldn’t be further outside of my comfort zone.

  But when my agent mentioned that a bunch of the models from my latest Riare, the most well-known upscale makeup brand in the world and my biggest campaign paycheck to date, shoot were venturing to Les Ches tonight … there was little I could do to avoid going as well. These brands want your face or body painted with their products, and then for you to go and show them off. Make other women envy you, drive sales using your face and unattainable artistry a makeup guru spent hours perfecting.

  Tonight, it’s mass hysteria in the basement lounge. The club is made up of multiple levels and multiple rooms in what used to be an old bank. The lowest level is a room larger than the open concept living room in my flat, completely encased in what used to be the secured vault of the financial institution. I enter through the enormous steel safe door, which sits ajar and appears like it might trap us all inside if there were an attack.

  Looking to my right, I see swarms of half-naked slags dancing on tables in the level’s signature waitress uniform: a pair of lace black panties and silky white chemise. The levels each have a different uniform, and the lower you go, the more scantily clad the servers get. The debauchery is as fast and hot as patrons want it, and I feel like an outsider the minute I step inside.

  Technically, this is my crowd. They’re the class of people I rub elbows with. But I like to think that their greed and selfishness hasn’t completely obliterated my personality or qualities. I live a life of charm, but I will never forget where I come from.

  As I look to my left, I spot him. A lot of eyes have turned our way—four international models all measuring above five ten are not likely to go unnoticed—in the short time we’ve infiltrated the lower level. But it only takes me an instant to scour through the prying gazes, past the hungry licks of lips and overt catcalls, to find Kingston’s emerald stare in the middle of the madness.

  He’s in a black button-down, black jeans, and black combat boots … and looks so virile and forbidden that my mouth starts to water. Again, I question what it is that makes me want to run into a burning building when it comes to this man.

  But then, my eyes shift, and I’m acutely aware of the not one but two bimbos perched on his lap. Right now, they’re pawing at each other, flirting and trying to catch his attention with some faux-lesbian act. I roll my eyes dramatically, so that he sees the motion, and Kingston’s mouth quirks up into a cheeky smirk.

  I haven’t seen him since the music war escapades about five days ago. I was out of town for a short trip to Vienna and then holed up in my apartment, sleeping through the exhaustion of the long work hours and travel. I could hear my neighbors come and go outside my door, but didn’t dare make a move to confront Kingston in the hall.

  After all, we’d only seen each other before the battle of songs when he’d kissed me in my kitchen. And since then, he hadn’t bothered to call, text, or slip love notes under my door. He clearly doesn’t care about me, or maybe he’d satisfied his curiosity about me. I’m sure finding out that the supermodel you were chasing has never been kissed is a bit of a letdown. He’d gotten as far as was possible with me, and now he was on to the next conquest.

  I can’t lie and say I wasn’t miffed. It always bugged me if and when I struck up a rapport with a man who showed his true colors only days later. Many of the males in my world were like that. Only after one thing, be it sex, money, or fame. Not many I interacted with could hold a bit of banter, had a good sense of humor, or could make the butterflies I thought were long dead ignite in my stomach. Unfortunately, Kingston Phillips could do all three. It’s a shame that he is such a shallow wanker.

  As if he could hear my thoughts, and wanted to further prove my point, Kingston tilts his head at me in challenge, and then promptly fuses his mouth to the bumbling, giggling blond slag seated on his right knee.

  At least his tongue was halfway down her throat when my jaw fell open … he couldn’t see my shock or hurt and for that I am thankful. My model friends had long abandoned me for the bar or their most recent arm candy, and I stood rooted to the spot, lingering just inside the bank vault door.

  The show they’re putting on is so vulgar and sloppy that someone ought to slap some sense into the man. He’s pulling her greedily, and it’s a hot ball of envy and disgust knotting my stomach knowing that I kind of wish I were her.

  I roll my shoulders back, allowing only one beat to pass where my mouth hangs open. To those around me, I’m now cool as a cucumber. Sneering with distaste at the obviousness of the bird mewling in his lap and using a steady hand to hike my miniature Chloé bag up onto my shoulder.

  Inside, I’m shaking. With rage, regret, upset, and staggering sadness. The last one is the emotion winning out, a gash beginning to open wide in my chest. Kingston might as well be staking my heart with the pointed stem of that wench’s knockoff heels, that’s how severely I feel the pain. It’s irrational and stupid, but I can’t seem to get a handle on it.

  In five years, I hadn’t regarded a man with anyt
hing other than fearful indifference. After becoming a victim of sexual abuse, I didn’t think it would be possible for me to feel anything but distrust for someone I might be attracted to. Kingston has blown that theory out of the water and completely smashed it to pieces. It was only a few stolen moments, of which I tried to convince myself I regretted … but that wasn’t true.

  I enjoyed the frenemy relationship we had going on, and I could have seen it leading to something. But who am I kidding? This was Kingston Phillips. A scoundrel, a cheat, a manwhore. He’s no better than the man who took everything from me, or the father who had betrayed my entire family.

  Kingston barely cares enough about his own life or his own future … who am I kidding that he’d consider doing the right thing by mine?

  I’ve barely been here five minutes, but I’ve seen enough. As I said, there were loads of reasons I hadn’t come to Les Ches before.

  Turning on my heel, I was already thinking about soaking my injured ego in a nice pot of tea and turning the American version of The Office on Netflix. When I reach the valet, I request my vehicle. He’s a solid professional, as he hadn’t parked it more than a few minutes ago but didn’t object or let any surprise flicker on his face when he hopped to to go retrieve it.

  It was just my luck I hadn’t been seriously considering staying tonight. If I’d had some drinks, I’d simply have gotten a car home. But part of me must have suspected how uncomfortable I would be here, and so I’d driven my own truck for a speedy getaway.

  Paparazzi bulbs flash as I duck into my jet-black Mercedes-Benz G-Class, setting my purse on the other side of the seat and buckling in before pressing my finger into the push-start ignition. My baby roars to life, and I smirk once again at investing in my favorite vehicle I’ve ever had. Before I bought this beauty, I wasn’t much of a driver. But sometimes, when I had the rare day off, I’d jump in my car and take long drives out of the city. I’d end up in random villages or rent a room in the country by myself, where barely anyone recognized me or knew my name. It was glorious.

  I rub the knackered feeling from my eyes as I drive out of the madness of cameramen and find myself relaxing as I venture down dark backstreets.

  Until I come to a traffic circle and the incessant beeping of a fellow driver has me turning my head.

  In the lane next to me is a black stretch limo, one of those ones you’d imagine a bridal party using. But instead of a bride and groom celebrating with their closest friends or family, I see a rather familiar man climbing out of the sunroof, onto the top of the vehicle.

  “What in the bloody hell …” I say to no one but myself, beginning to roll down my window.

  The driver of the limo must be heeding the man’s bellowed instructions, which I can hear from here now that the outside air is wafting into my truck.

  “Don’t stop beeping until you get her attent—” Kingston breaks off when he spots me staring at him as if he’s some rabid animal. “And there she is, mates! The gorgeous Poppy Raymond, driving her chariot home all by herself. What happened, it’s going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”

  At this point, Kingston has more than half of his body out of the sunroof, and is haphazardly sitting on top of the limo like it’s some bench seat made for specifically this purpose. He’s pissed, that much I know, and his face is ruddy in its anger.

  “What is wrong with you? Get in the car!” I demand, watching as taxis, buses, and cars alike race through the roundabout both of our vehicles are set to enter.

  “Nah, what’s the fun in that? Live a little, Poppy!” He cackles wildly, and a sharp ache in my chest tells me he’s about to do something extremely stupid.

  Just as I think it, he pulls himself the rest of the way out, hoisting his long, lean body fully onto the roof as the limo driver begins to roll forward. The arsehole plants his feet on the top and then stands, and I feel like I might be sick in my own lap.

  “Get inside the car!” I scream, my vocal cords straining with fury and desperation.

  He salutes me, balancing his hands as if he’s on a surfboard. One bump of a tire or swerve in a lane, and he’ll go flying into the middle of A3213 and be decimated by an oncoming double decker.

  Now, instead of annoyance at his game playing, after he’s the one who just stuck his tongue down some kit chasers throat in front of me … all I feel is sympathy and panic. I need to calm him down, make him see reason.

  What in God’s name is he playing at? “Kingston, I don’t know what you’re on, or how you’re feeling, but please—”

  “All I feel is free, love!” He beats his chest and then flings both arms out to the side as the limo begins to enter the roundabout.

  Without hesitation, I stomp the gas pedal to the floor, knowing that if I don’t follow him …

  Well, hell, this will end badly for anyone. My heart is in my throat as I swerve and cut off the other drivers around me, getting honked at left and right. I notice flashbulbs going off, and I can see Kingston stumbling as he continues to try to play this game of chicken.

  To live or not to live …

  Sadly, I know just how he feels. It dawns on me, as I risk my own life speeding through the streets of London, that we’re not so different after all.

  It’s ten minutes of pure fear and raw panic coursing through my veins as I follow his limo back to Charlton House. Halfway through he sits back down, legs dangling into the sunroof, which still doesn’t do much to ease my worry.

  As I slam my G-wagon into park in front of our building, I see him dismounting with a flourish of his hands. No one follows him, and I realize he acted alone … this wasn’t a dare or a prank.

  It’s a person in a very dark place to risk their own life for nothing but the thrill of it.

  Yet, he wanted me to see this.

  “You’re a fucking lunatic! You could have killed yourself.” I stomp up to him, finger pointed directly in his face.

  Kingston has the bollocks to snidely laugh in my face. “Oh, calm down, love. Just having a spot of fun, is all.”

  “You might be able to fool everyone else with this reckless, cocky, party boy act, but don’t think I don’t see through all of it. You want to take risks with your own life, throw caution to the wind and taunt fate or the Grim Reaper or whoever else you’re trying to challenge … be my guest. But don’t involve me in it! I’m through with this, you got it?”

  My outburst leaves me shaking, and I blink back tears. I can’t watch someone else go through it when I internalize how he feels every single day.

  I don’t bother to listen to his rebuttal or judge his expression. If Kingston doesn’t care about what happens to him, then neither do I.

  I’m officially done concerning myself with my beautiful, broken neighbor.

  16

  Poppy

  “Absolutely not.”

  My voice is a heavy stone in a calm pool of water, and I see the ripples I’ve caused all over Claud’s face.

  “Poppy, sweetheart, this is a big job.” He uses that singsong tone on me that I loathe. “And they’ve asked for you specifically. After he saw you at the United Kingdom Television Awards, he knew you’d be perfect to model the new line of coats for fall.”

  “What did I tell you about working with him? I will not do it.” Every nerve in my body is going haywire, and I suddenly feel that if I tried to stand, the paths to my brain would get crossed and I’d end up in a heap on the floor.

  “Love, this is silly—”

  I cut Claud, my agent and manager for all intents and purposes, off. “I made it very clear. I would not and will not work with Nicolai DeCallen. Ever.”

  It’s the closest I’ve ever come to telling someone about what happened to me. About what Nicolai did to me. Claud has been my agent since I got into the game; he’s the one who discovered me from the commercial and changed my entire life. Back then, he’d been a platinum-blond shark in a three-piece suit and wore a diamond pinky ring. He never took no for an answer, drank espresso
as if it were water, and always allowed his dogs, two miniature poodles, to lounge in his office.

  Today, he is much the same, though his gut has grown a little from the constant indulgent meals, and his hair has begun thinning on the sides. From then until now, I could always count on him to have my back. He’s honest, which is saying a lot in this line of work, didn’t beat around the bush, and actually gives me a say about my career. Claud is one of the few people I can count on in my life.

  But Nicolai? We’ve never discussed it in length, and I know that he knew what happened, but would never push it. Not because he was respecting my boundaries. Oh no, we were far too into limelight territory to care about such trivial things.

  No, Claud would never ask me why I’d outlawed working with Nicolai DeCallen because he would have to do something with my answer. If he didn’t know about my assault, about how a man four times my age sexually abused a fifteen-year-old girl, then he wouldn’t have to have his models stop working with the most renowned photographer in the business.

  If Claud didn’t know that I’d been drugged and held down against my will, he didn’t have to report anything. He didn’t have to get the media involved or be a witness in the next takedown of the Me Too movement.

  And I don’t want to be that girl. The sad, broken one who was molested and who has never allowed a man to touch her since that day. I didn’t want to get up in front of press conferences or news broadcasts or rallies and relive my victimization.

  So, we didn’t talk about it. But Claud has just crossed a line, trying to convince me into this campaign.