34
It’s been one week, and I’ve heard nothing about Piper’s diary.
No news from Detective Haskins, Ahmar, or even my friendly Cloak. I’m walking on needles every day, thinking at any moment, someone will come around the corner and point the finger at me.
Detective Haskins asking, Why didn’t you give me the diary in person, Callie? What are you trying to hide?
Ahmar, questioning, I told you to stay away from this, kiddo. You’re making it worse for yourself.
Chase, accusing, What have you done to me, you bitch?
Nothing comes, save for quiet murmurings that Piper’s case might have new evidence. That tidbit, I heard from Dr. Luke when he was conversing with Professor Dawson outside his classroom. He caught me listening, then went so quiet, I couldn’t catch what else he was saying.
Immersing myself with the line of students wandering up the stairs, I don’t register bodies getting closer to me until two forms practically step on my head.
The person brushing up against me on my left—James—grabs my elbow.
“What the—?” But I’m cut off by Tempest on my left. His jade green eyes link with mine.
“You’re coming with us,” he says.
“What are you, the campus police?” I say, attempting to struggle out of James’s hold. Students mill around us, heedless of my wrestling.
“No,” James says with a tug.
“Worse,” Tempest adds, and holds a hand against my lower back, pushing me forward.
Struggling with these two is like trying to kick a tank, and I’m swept up in their grip and through Briarcliff’s doors before I can let out an outraged gasp.
Riordan stands at the base of the steps to the Wolf’s Den, leaning against the single wall and waiting for us with hooded eyes. When he catches sight of the three of us, he turns on his heel and walks up the stairs.
“This is—you can’t get away with this bullshit!” I say, wiry and spry with useless maneuvers. I search around the lobby for any kind of friendly face—or teacher—but see none as these boys manhandle me up the stairs and onto a couch.
“Sit,” Tempest says with a firm hand on my shoulder. “Stay.”
I glare up at him. “The only dogs I see in this room are you jackasses.”
James rounds the couch until he’s standing behind me. “So, are we canines or donkeys? You can’t have both.”
I whip around to give him a piece of my mind, but I’m stopped by a form stepping from the shadows and taking a seat across from me.
Chase splays his legs and rests his elbows on the armchair, his chin dipped low in deep regard.
If it weren’t for the Briarcliff crest on his blazer, I would’ve taken him for a mafia drug lord. His dark blond hair is slicked back from the curves of his face, his aristocratic brows lowered, a thoughtful line forming between. The one spark of light in his gloomy, shadowed form is his eyes, the color of icy scotch. Though, what that stare holds is anyone’s guess. His outward purity is a natural disguise for the unmentionable sins harboring within that mind of his.
“Don’t make a sound,” he says to me. His direct stare communicates the danger I’ll put myself in if I refuse his orders.
Perhaps, picturing Chase running an illegal empire isn’t too far-fetched.
Up here, the lull of students heading to dinner below is hushed, a low thrum of voices and footsteps dissipating with time.
Chase glances left, toward the balcony overhang, the movement confirming that the lobby’s emptied out.
“You can go, boys. Callie, stay here.”
Tempest, James, and Riordan—whose position I hadn’t clocked until now, near the coffee cart, move toward the stairs.
“Want me to save you some pork marsala?” James asks Chase as he passes.
“I’ll take some, too,” I pipe up, aware of what his response will be.
“You can have whatever scraps are left,” James says before descending. “It’s what you’re used to, anyway.”
I click my tongue, then slide my gaze back to Chase's. “Your friends are so charming.”
Chase’s expression remains impassive.
“Say, when you order them to harass me like the good little henchmen they are, can you ask them to say pretty please? Or, even better, can you have them stay the fuck away from me?”
“I wouldn’t want to be you right now.”
Oh, how fun. Chase is being cryptic again. I sigh and slouch against the couch. “And why’s that?”
“I’ve just finished being re-interrogated by the police.” Chase angles his head, his stare precise. “Did you have something to do with it?”
The diary. Haskins has it. “For the last time—no,” I hiss at the exact moment my heart turns into an anchor and plummets. “I was as surprised as anyone else when I heard Piper’s case might be reopened.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You didn’t shed a tear when your roommate died. I could easily label you a cold bitch for that. Or … a cold-blooded murderer.”
“What is it you want? For me to buckle to my knees the moment she’s mentioned? Sob into my blazer? It’s horrible what happened, but I refuse to do what everyone is asking just because I was her roommate for a week.”
“You called me Mr. S.”
Chase says it mildly, like he’s semi-interested by the answer, but I sense the warning.
“Well, your surname is Stone,” I retort. I cover up my tremors with a snarl.
“Funny, it’s the obvious name the police used for me, too,” Chase says, and it’s so menacing, I wince. “So obvious, in fact, that I’d never use it if I were trying to hide my dastardly deeds.”
“Was Piper one of your dirty secrets?” my voice rises with the question, and I let it. “Did you have something to do—”
“Are you a narc?”
Shaking, I reply, “No. Haskins hasn’t said a word to me, and I haven’t gone to him.”
“Do you picture it?” Chase asks. “How Piper must’ve felt when she went off the cliff? The wind deafening in her ears, the air too fast for her to breathe, her heart beating out of her chest with fear. I do.” His eyes glitter with the sharp amber of spite.
“I don’t need to,” I retort. “Since my nightmares are taken up by my mother sprawled on the floor in a pool of her own blood.”
My breath snaps at the end, an audible whiplash that Chase has no right to hear.
Trembling, clenching my hands, I give him my profile, so he doesn’t see the sudden tears.
Chase keeps silent, as if basking in the grief.
“My injustice may not come from the same section of my heart as yours,” I say. “But we’ve both experienced the violence of a sudden death. Your girlfriend—”
“Again, with the girlfriend.”
“Again, with the denial,” I say.
Chase cocks his head, his cold stare tempered with assessment. “Why are you so convinced Piper and I were together? Do you have to sit on my lap to prove we weren’t?”
His gaze dips to his spread legs, where I suppose he wants me to look, too. I don’t because I can’t. I cannot keep reacting to him like this.
“Your parents are getting married,” I say. “Piper’s mom and your dad. You two were about to be brother and sister. That must’ve horrified you.”
Chase's temperament doesn’t turn to outraged fire. Nor does he twitch at the mention of his and Piper’s future. “Done some digging, have you? Do you find me that interesting?”
“I find Piper’s secrets of particular importance, considering she’s not breathing anymore.”
Chase concedes my point. “That wasn’t something we kept under wraps. Only an outsider would find that kind of thing interesting.”
“But you would’ve kept sleeping together a secret.”
Chase smiles, but it’s not his perfect, half-moon crescent of a weapon, deployed on the female population. “No. We wo
uldn’t have. And I’m sorry to disappoint, sweet possum, but I gave the detective an air-tight alibi. I was with my boys all night. We were at the party together, we left together. Riordan’s my roommate, and James crashed on the floor next to my bed. It’s been verified, and as such…” He makes an exaggerated sad face. “I’m not their Mr. S. Or yours.”
Chase’s answer makes me falter with a second’s hesitation, but I’m not about to fall for it. James, Riordan, Tempest—they’d all lie for him.
Chase pounces. “If Piper and I were fucking again, we’d do it in front of our parents if we could. I can’t stand my father, and Piper despises her mom. Getting back together would’ve been ideal for both of us, but unfortunately…” Chase trails off into deliberate silence, where only our heartbeats matter. “Save for a few weak moments, my proclivities moved on.”
My cheeks warm, but I bite the inside to turn that heat into pain. It’s so screwed up of him to be so devilishly hot with me, but Chase excels at it.
Against my better judgment, my gaze drops to his thighs. I kick my attention back up, but Chase catches my perusal with sexual, knowing derision.
I pretend deep interest in our surroundings. “You know, for a place set aside for seniors, you and your Nobles reserve it a lot.”
Chase goes rigid. “What have I told you—”
“About the name? Yeah, I get that it’s forbidden, but that only makes me want to keep tasting it on my tongue.”
I toss a closed mouth smile his way, but my tantalization isn’t as effective as his.
“And,” I continue, “I think there’s some sort of cover-up going on with Piper’s fall.”
The shadowed skin around his eyes tapers into a glare. “If, after all your digging, that’s where you’ve ended up, you better get a shovel, sweetheart.”
“What, you don’t think a group of legacy bad boys could be responsible for it?”
Chase snickers, but on him, it’s a darting snake bite. “That’s what you think they are?”
They. I latch onto the meaning behind his use of the word. Not we.
I force a shrug, though my shoulders are heavy with wariness. “If you have a superior theory, let’s hear it.”
“Nineteenth century bones can’t give you answers six feet under. Visit Rose Briar’s grave all you like, blame Piper’s death on this secret boy band you’ve concocted, and I’ll do the rest.” Chase dips his chin. “I figured you for an ally, Callie. I don’t like to be wrong.”
“The Nobles have something to do with it.” I push to my feet. “And the fact that you’re so dismissive of my theory proves it. I don’t need your gratitude or permission to keep going. When I find the person responsible, you can thank me then.”
Chase tsks. “You’re so positive. Yet, your track record doesn’t give me a ton of hope.”
I freeze. “Don’t you dare…”
“What?” Chase rises, then steps, with his shadow looming over me. “While your mom’s rotting in the dirt, her killer is—”
He predicts the slap before it meets its mark. My wrist thrums under his grip, my pulse spiking to adrenaline levels that would make a racehorse shy away.
Chase waits for my flickering focus to steady on his. “If you’re going to be so mean,” he says, his gaze tracing the curves of my face, “at least let me get under you first.”
It hurts to breathe. Not from pain, but from the amount of space my heart’s taking up in my chest, crushing my lungs. Chase has never been so blatant before. Our encounters flirt with sex, but never have they felt so explicit, so real.
The animalistic urge to grab him by his school shirt, until my fingers dig into his flesh is insurmountable. The idea of bringing him close, of slamming my lips against his and putting his dark promises to the test kills any remaining rationale.
“Let me go,” I grit out. My clenched jaw does nothing to settle the urge for him.
One corner of his mouth lifts, and he steps even closer. “Say please.”
His thighs push into mine, but those streamlined muscles of his, refined to cut through the gloss of a lake, are nothing compared to the hard length I’m feeling in the middle.
My panties go damp. My unrefined, sedentary thighs tremble around his confident swell. I’m telling myself not to part my legs for him, even if he comes with the god-like gift of the best orgasm of my life.
“Is something the matter, Callie?” he asks kindly. Too languidly.
A trap.
In one swift arc, I grip his dick through his pants, the shaft encompassing my entire palm.
Chase’s eyes flare at the sudden touch, but he doesn’t flinch, or waver, or do any of the things I hoped he would when I called his bluff.
Instead, he drops his arms, my free wrist falling listlessly to my side. He lets his arms hang, no longer touching any part of me, but pushes his groin deeper into my grip.
Chase’s upper lip curls as he gazes down at me through his lashes. “You ever channeled your anger through sex, sweet possum?” The tip of his tongue darts out when I don’t move my hand away. I can’t. He’s too delectable in my grip, but I’ll never admit it. Chase is under my control. I’m feeding off it like a succubus.
“Answer me,” he says.
My eyes don’t leave his, but I have what he wants. My palm rubs against the fabric, against him, and he twitches under the friction.
“Mm. Undo my pants.”
My self-control is far from reach. The temptation to do as he pleases and act the way he expects is too strong.
But I want him. I’ve been dreaming of him. Chase Stone, who is under my heel.
I do as he asks. I accept the dare he’s put forth and his cunning desire to see how far I’ll take this.
“Stick your hand in.” Chase smiles, the corners weighted with desire. “I promise I don’t bite.”
My fingers trace the light trail of hair under his belly button, then spread across the deep V. When I find the hot length of him, I come closer, my nose brushing his, my lips a velvet touch away.
Chase grunts when I tighten my grip, but it’s a sexy sound, one that makes me stroke him faster. He growls, his tongue darting for control against my lower lip, but I stay a hairsbreadth back, wanting to witness his every twitch, each minuscule reaction, as I bring Chase Stone to the edge.
Unable to let him have all the pleasure to himself, I use my free hand on myself, lifting my skirt and finding the lining of my underwear.
Chase follows the movement. His hands clench. When he doesn’t move to assist me, I realize he’s wagering for dominance, too.
I smile, this inner vixen of mine lifting her sexy, deprived head, and she grabs Chase’s wrist and trails his fingers across the lace of my underwear.
Chase wets his bottom lip. His fingers curl against my delicate skin. The breath I’ve been harboring stutters out. I didn’t expect to get so wet at his wisp of a touch. I’m not myself. This isn’t right. It’s dangerous … and I’m starving for it.
In retaliation, I drop his hand, choosing to finger myself than allow Chase to win any ground.
With both hands working, I bring us up, up, up and under, our eyes locked, our breaths as short and hot as my strokes.
I nuzzle his throat, licking the spot where his pulse patters beneath his skin.
When Chase’s lips part, when his chin tips to the roof, I speak.
“Who’s in control now?” I whisper near his ear.
“Fuck—” he rasps, and I know I have him.
Snick.
We both freeze at the foreign sound.
Chase moves, twisting as my hand goes slack, and I hurriedly smooth down my skirt. But Chase is flying across the floorboards and leaps across the stair’s railing before I’ve registered Riordan’s head popping up through the rafters, his phone’s lens facing us.
“You motherfucker!” Chase roars, and I back up at the sound, even though he’s nowhere near me.
I race to the balcony overhang in time to witness Chase grabbing
Riordan by the back of his blazer’s lapel and tossing him onto the ground with the ease of throwing a wet noodle at a kitchen wall.
Riordan’s head makes a sickening crack against the marble, but he’s conscious. “What the fuck, man? We agreed to record—”
Chase bends low, but leers above Riordan with the languidness of a viper assessing its paralyzed prey before swallowing it. Chase says something I don’t catch, but I do see him grab the phone from Rio, tap the screen a few times, then toss the phone against Riordan’s chest.
As he backs away, Chase looks up to my level. I cover my surprise at being caught under his scope by forming my lips into a tight, grim line.
I expect Chase to say something along the lines of, “Don’t worry, sweet possum, it’s deleted,” but I receive nothing but an enduring glare as he twists on his heel and stalks to the front door, throwing them wide with one push.
Releasing a long, needed exhale, I back away from the railing, and, in need of a cool down, twist my hair at the nape of my neck. The air is a welcome balm, but I can’t relax.
The heat in my cheeks … and down there … doesn’t fade.
Sitting in the chair Chase vacated, still warm from his body, my palm still tingling from jerking him off, I’m left wondering what the hell I’ve done.
35
Unsurprisingly, I don’t make it to dinner service.
I’m proud of my foresight to buy groceries, so I’m not left hungry when I step into my dorm room.
I’m leaning against the counter and gnawing on a delicious piece of sea salt dark chocolate when it hits me like a sack of potatoes.
I pleasured Chase Stone.
Power has never seemed so wanton before, but I had it in my hand—literally—unexpected and wonderful. The bottomless hole of greed even had me pleasuring Chase by independently pleasuring myself, a piece of delicious mastery I refused to give to him for free.
The chocolate melts into cloying sugar on my tongue, and its sweetness burns my throat. I swallow it much like the building orgasm I never got to receive, starting off so sweet and seductive, then ending with the sharp bite of reality.
I am such an idiot.
Never trust Chase. Cornering me in private with his daring grin and come-fuck-me eyes shouldn’t have lured me the way it did.
Rival (Briarcliff Secret Society Series Book 1) Page 19