by Bea Paige
“I know,” Xeno bites out, shutting the door behind him.
With my head turned to the side, I watch Xeno as he leans against the door, his hands stuffed into his pockets, staring at us both.
“You gonna stand there?” Zayn asks. I note the missing but implied word, just.
“Yeah, I am.” Xeno’s is acting stubborn even though his eyes are dark and full of glittering promises, like jewels locked away in a glass cage. He gives me glimpses of the riches he could bestow if only he would let himself.
Zayn shakes his head. “Why torture yourself, man?” he asks before grasping my face in his large palms and gives me a kiss to rival all other kisses. His tongue swirls and dips, his teeth nip and bite, his lips soothe and caress. It’s a hot, messy, glorious kiss that burns me white-hot and turns me inside out. When Zayn’s mouth closes over my nipple and his fingers slide between my legs, I turn my head to Xeno and let out a low moan. Heat builds within me, around us. Emotions swirling in the torrid air, conjured up by our love and our lust.
Through the haze, I can see Xeno push off against the door, his body rocking on his feet as though he’s fighting every instinct to come and join us. Our eyes lock and he drags a hand through his hair, a frown marring his beautiful face.
“Xeno,” I mouth, but the sound is ripped from my lips when Zayn presses his thumb against my clit and I orgasm, my eyes falling shut and my chest heaving.
When I finally open my eyes, blinking back the stars, Xeno is gone.
The next morning it’s just Xeno and me in the house. The rest of the Breakers are coming back later in the afternoon and we’re going to have a movie night, making the most of our time together before I have to go back home tomorrow. Right now, Xeno’s sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Hey,” I say, giving him a wave and then mentally kicking myself for being so awkward. I’ve changed back into my own clothes and I’ve got the ones of his I borrowed folded up in my hands with my dirty underwear tucked between the folds. “Could I use your washing machine? I need to wash your clothes.”
He glances at me, his gaze moving between my face and his joggers and back again. “Sure, laundry detergents under the sink,” he indicates, jerking his chin towards the cupboard before returning his attention back to his phone. I see red spots heat beneath his tan skin, and feel my own flush at the memory of what happened last night. I came on Zayn’s hand and all over Xeno’s favourite pair of jogging pants.
This isn’t awkward, much.
“Did you speak to your mum?” I ask, picking a fairly neutral subject to try and ease the growing tension in the room whilst I throw the clothes into the washing machine and switch it on.
“Yeah, they’re back the day after tomorrow. I’m going to have to make sure this place is tidied up before then. Mum’ll blow a gasket if she sees the mess.”
“I’ll help tidy up. It’s the least I can do after you’ve let me stay. I really appreciate it, Xeno. It means a lot to me.”
“Sure,” he mumbles, returning his attention to the mobile phone and whatever he’s so engrossed in watching on it. Feeling like I need to clear the air, I pull up next to him and peer over his shoulder. He’s watching a dance battle on his phone. A couple of the guys are doing insane flips, jumping over each other, and wiping the floor with their opponents.
“Impressive,” I comment. It would take a lot of skill and strength to do what they’re doing and not faceplant onto the floor or collide. “It looks tricky.”
“We could totally ace this move. I’ll show it to Zayn later…” he replies, flicking the screen upwards and placing his phone face down on the table. He sits stiffly beside me as silence descends. I feel more awkward than ever around him.
“We’re still doing it… the competition, I mean?” I ask him, surprised, honestly.
“Of course we are. Why do you think we wouldn’t be?”
“You’ve been busy…” I point out.
“And you’ve been avoiding us,” he retorts. “I guess that makes us equal.”
I don’t respond because I can feel the beginnings of an argument forming, and I really, really don’t want to fight. So we sit in silence until I can’t deal with it anymore.
“Are we okay?” I ask eventually, worrying my lip like I tend to do when I’m anxious.
“Why wouldn’t we be?” he answers way too quickly for my liking.
“Because you’re acting weird, because you’re looking at everything in this room bar me.” And because I feel like I’m losing you.
At that he shifts in his seat so that our knees bang together, and the heat of his gaze is fixed firmly on my face. “Is that better?”
“Not really,” I mutter, wishing I hadn’t said anything.
“You didn’t seem to mind me staring last night.”
Puffing out my cheeks, I decide to grow some lady balls. “You’re right, I didn’t. But that was different. You looked at me like you wanted me. Now you’re looking at me like you don’t know who I am. I’m still me. I’m still, Pen and I love Zayn.”
“So is it him? Is he the one you’re going to choose?”
“You’re still adamant about that, after everything that’s happened?” My voice is sharp. It angers me that he’s still so determined to break us apart. I’m not any nearer to knowing what I want. If anything, being intimate with York, Dax and Zayn has made this harder.
He puffs out his cheeks, then blows out a steady breath. “I never change my mind about anything once it’s made up.”
“What, never?” I ask, placing my hand over his, my heart battering like a piston against my rib cage.
“Never.”
“Have you ever considered the possibility that I won’t have to choose, that they might choose me?” I whisper, feeling both hope at the possibility and agony at the thought.
Xeno meets my gaze and I see the truth in them. He has thought about it. He’s thought about it a lot. Xeno opens his mouth to respond, but slams it shut when his phone starts ringing. Snatching it up, he strides from the kitchen. By the time he returns, the moment of honesty is gone and neither of us bring up the subject again.
29
Present day
“Again!” Zayn snaps, striding across the studio in front of us.
He’s sweating, tiny beads of water forming on his forehead as he waits for us to drag our tired-arse bodies up off the floor. The arsehole has given us just five minutes to rest after two hours of dancing nonstop. Picked by Xeno as the choreographer for the group dance, Zayn has taken it upon himself to act as a tyrant whilst Xeno watches from the side lines.
We’ve been learning the steps for our group dance for almost two hours without a break and there’s not one of us who doesn’t look like they’re about to collapse. I’m strong and fit, but this is fucking ridiculous. It’s Friday afternoon and tonight I have to get ready for Jeb and whatever the fuck he has planned. I need this like a hole in the head.
“What the fuck’s got his goat?” River grumbles, casting a look at Clancy who shrugs.
“I’ve no idea. It’s not as if the show is any time soon. Maybe he needs to let off some steam. I could totally help him out in that department,” Sophie pipes up, butting into our conversation.
She can fuck right off in her skimpy dance outfit that shows of her tight figure and six pack.
“Never going to happen,” I respond, glaring at her over my shoulder.
She tips her head back and cackles, drawing everyone’s attention. I want to fucking scream that he was mine first. That he loved me first. I also want to fucking scratch her eyes out.
“Right, that’s enough!” Xeno gets up from the bench and saunters over, flicking me a dark look.
“I’m not finished,” Zayn grunts.
“Yeah, you are,” Xeno retorts, handing Zayn a bottle of water which he snatches out of his hand. I watch him unscrew the bottle top and down the whole thing. “It’s the weekend. Get some rest. We’ll start up rehearsals
again next week. In the meantime, try not to fucking kill each other.” Xeno looks directly at me and I roll my eyes.
What the fuck ever.
Everyone disperses, gathering up their stuff. Clancy drops down on the bench, her creamy cheeks pink with exertion. She blows a strand of curly orange hair out of her eyes.
“Fuck, that was brutal. Was he always such a goddamn tyrant?” she asks, taking a deep glug of water from her bottle.
I give her a look that says, not here. No one bar Clancy and the Breakers actually know that we were old friends and I’d like to keep it that way.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
“I gotta run,” I say. Grabbing my bag and swinging it over my shoulder.
“You working tonight?” she asks.
“Yeah…” It’s not a lie per se, but I don’t want her to come to Rocks and find me not there.
She grimaces. “You don’t mind if I give it a miss, do you? Only I got my period and I’m bloated as fuck.”
“Of course I don’t mind. We’ll catch up Sunday,” I say, trying to hide the relief I feel.
“You not around tomorrow?”
“No, I’m going home to see my little sister.” Another lie. They seem to slip so effortlessly from my mouth today.
“Okay, cool. Catch you Sunday.”
“Yeah, Sunday,” I mutter, heading out of the studio, just as my phone starts vibrating in my bag. I snatch it up and answer. “Yes?”
“Penelope, that’s no way to greet me, now is it?”
Shit. It’s Jeb. That’ll teach me not to check the caller ID before answering. I push through the door leading into the flight of stairs that leads up to the flats.
“Hey, sorry. Just got out of a rehearsal,” I explain, forcing myself to be polite.
“Are you ready for tonight? Did you spend my money wisely?”
“Uh-huh. I got a cocktail dress like you asked. There’s money left over, I’ll bring it later.”
“Keep it,” he says.
“No. That’s okay…”
“I said, keep it, Penelope.”
Gritting my teeth, I bite back the response I want to say, and smile into the mouthpiece. For the most part I can convince myself that I’m just an employee of Jeb’s and nothing more, but on occasions like this I can’t hide the fact that I’m his property just like the rest of the Skins are. “Sure.”
“Good. I’ll send a car to pick you up from Rocks at eight. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t be.”
He clicks off and I jam my phone into my bag and take the stairs two at a time. I’ve got a couple hours to sort my head out and to make myself look presentable. I just wish there’s a pill I could take to make me forget what’s to come, because whatever Jeb has planned, it won’t be good.
Feeling uncomfortable and out of my comfort zone, I stand a little further along from the entrance of Rocks trying to avoid the occasional glances from Tommy, the bouncer. He’s in his late thirties, built, and covered head to toe in tattoos, but despite his reputation, is a good guy. At least he’s always been nice to me. I can’t say the same for the countless number of people he’s manhandled out of the club over the years and given a beating when the need arises.
Fortunately for me, there are only a few eager beavers lining up and Tommy ushers them through without so much as a glance. All of them were under sixteen, let alone eighteen.
Pulling at the hem of my off-the-shoulder, figure hugging, mid-thigh, black, cocktail dress, I wait for my lift to arrive. My hair is styled in soft waves that took me over an hour to perfect. Add to that a dash of mascara and cherry-red lipstick and pair it with killer, red, stiletto heels and I look nothing short of slutty. I’m the perfect dolly-bird, and I fucking hate it.
Eight o’clock on the dot, a black limousine with tinted windows and shiny silver hubcaps pulls up. Jeb couldn’t be anymore ostentatious if he tried. Internally I roll my eyes, externally I plaster on a fake smile and steel myself for the evening ahead, wondering whether this is the time I’ll pay off my debt and will be free to live.
The back passenger door opens, and picking up my overnight bag, I slide into the limousine as ladylike as I can, given my restrictive outfit. Expecting to see Jeb sitting next to the mini fridge, I’m shocked to come face-to-face with Zayn.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, pulling the door shut behind me. I place my overnight bag on the floor, trying to hide the surprise in my voice as I slide along the seat
“Jeb is otherwise engaged. He’s going to meet us at the venue. I’m your… chaperone,” Zayn replies, his eyes roving over my outfit. I see a flicker of surprise followed swiftly by disgust and I try not to react. Screw him. He doesn’t know why I’m doing this.
Clasped between his middle finger and thumb is a crystal glass filled a quarter of a way up with a deep amber liquid. He lifts it to his lips and takes a mouthful leaving a bead of liquid on his bottom lip. I watch with a pounding heart as his tongue snakes out between his lips, licking at the droplet in such a way that my skin warms.
“I see your tastes have changed,” I comment, unable to help myself.
Zayn was always a beer drinker and a Mary-J smoker, avoiding the hard liqueur that Xeno and Dax used to indulge in. He was also a jean, t-shirt and trainer wearing hip-hop dancer too, but right now he looks every inch the gangster with his perfectly fitted black suit and stark white shirt, unbuttoned to reveal the smattering of chest hair I used to love so much.
“Drink?” he asks me, ignoring my comment and looking at me with dark eyes that swallow me up. There’s a cool kind of calm about him and when he checks his gold Rolex watch on his wrist for the time, I realise this is a side to him I’ve never seen before. Zayn was never this closed-off, this guarded.
I swallow hard. I can deal with Zayn as an angrier version of the kid I used to know charging around a dance studio, but this, not so much. His mannerisms are more like his uncle than I’d like. In fact, they’re build is horrifyingly similar now that I think about it. I don’t want to see Zayn as a younger version of Jeb, but the way he’s looking at me now is testing my ability to ignore the fact they’re related.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I respond tightly.
He raises a brow, but doesn’t question it. Knocking back the remains of his drink, Zayn deposits the glass on the tray with the decanter and pours me a generous shot into a clean glass.
“Here,” he says, placing the glass on a small side table that’s nearer to him than me before leaning back and watching me approach from his spot on the leather seat opposite.
Manoeuvring in a moving vehicle isn’t easy at the best of times, but in the outfit I’m wearing, almost impossible. But, just like the bad-bitch that I am, I do it without face-planting on the floor at his feet, and fold myself elegantly into the seat that runs perpendicular to his. I’m itching to pull the hem of my dress down, but that would signify that I’m not as comfortable or as confident as I’m making out to be. So, I don’t.
“Nice outfit,” he muses coldly, his gaze sliding up from my curved foot to my knee and the expanse of my thigh.
“I could say the same for you,” I retort back, flinching at the way he studies me. Sipping on my drink, brandy as it turns out, I wait for Zayn to speak up. When he doesn’t, I fill the silence with my own question.
“What are you up to Zayn? What has Jeb got you involved in now?”
Zayn chuckles darkly, meeting my gaze with his cold stare. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Not really, just making conversation,” I lie.
Again.
Deciding to go for a different tactic, I twist my body to face him. He mirrors me and I get a whiff of his delicious smelling cologne with its spicy top notes and zesty undertones, a luscious combination. I fight everything not to let my eyelids droop and breathe him in deeply. “Do you know where we’re going tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“And?” I press, feeling decidedly unnerve
d by the silent, almost calculating way he’s looking at me.
“You’ll see when we get there.” He taps on the blackout divider behind his head and it slides open to reveal the driver. “How long?” he asks.
“Five minutes, Scar,” the driver responds.
“Scar?” I question.
“That’s right. I’ve got a few of them.” He shrugs, like that’s no big deal.
“How? What happened to you?” I ask, remembering very clearly the jagged scars across his pecs that he bared in the dance studio a few days ago. He scowls, his eyes darkening to a black so bottomless that I wince.
“That is none of your damn business.”
For a moment, the air between us is fraught with the burden of our past hurts and I have an impulsive need to lean across the divide and press my fingers against the ridge of one the scars I see peeping out from beneath the open collar of his shirt. He looks down at where I’m staring, and his inked fingers come up and fix the button, hiding the scars once more. It’s only then that I notice a fresh tattoo on his inner wrist. I gasp at what I see.
“Zayn, is that a…?” I stare, reaching for his arm and tugging it towards me, forgetting the fact that we’re not friends and I can’t just grab him like this. “…A penny?”
My fingers pull back the sleeve of his shirt and suit jacket enough to get a good look at the tattoo on his wrist. It wasn’t there earlier today. He must’ve had this done between the end of our practice session in the studio and now. My heart squeezes painfully, and I look at him in confusion. “Why do you have this tattooed on your wrist?” His jaw muscle ticks, and I can hear his teeth grinding over one another as he looks at my finger gently moving over the gold one pound coin tattooed there. “Zayn?”
His eyes snap up to meet mine, and I’m shocked by the anguish I see there. “To remind me.”
“Remind you of what?”
“The price you pay for love,” he says bitterly.