Neveah (Society Girls #2)

by Crystal Perkins

  Once I was tested and had my tour, Reina sent me back to college. She told me to continue my studies and that she’d let me know once they were ready for me. I’ve seen her over the past year, because she’s married to Matt. I even went to their second wedding in Mexico this year—I was at their first wedding, too. Even without the Society she’d be a part of my life, because of Matt.

  Matt is…well, that’s hard to explain, because he’s so many things to me and my family. We knew him first as the young soldier who came to our house, falling to his knees and crying at my mother’s feet. All because a stray bullet from his gun killed my father. My mother never blamed him, not even for a minute, and my brother and I took our cues from her. Over the years, he became a part of our family. We love him, not because of the money he’s given us to make sure we all live comfortably, or for arranging our American green cards. No, he’s part of our family because he’s a good man who loves us just as much as we love him.

  And he really did get me as ready for the Society as a person could possibly be. I know almost as many languages as Reina, I am comfortable with all forms of technology, I can spar with Matt and his friends, and I know how to act like a lady when I need to. The only thing I can’t do is shoot a gun.

  Prologue

  One week ago

  Neveah

  I needed a break from my friends and our revolving table of drama, and the silent auction items seem like a great place to escape to. I peruse the trips, the meals, the show tickets, and the jewelry, but none of it really catches my eye. I have some money to donate, but I don’t want to go home with any old thing just because I want something.

  As I walk a little further down the tables, I see the guns. There are some ugly black ones, but there’s also one with an intricately inlaid handle. It’s beautiful, which is ironic, since it’s still a harbinger of death, no matter what it tries to look like.

  I hate guns. Even in the hands of someone who is trained to use them, accidents happen, and man walking by can be killed. I’ll never blame Matt for killing my father, but I can’t help but blame the gun he was using. I know I have to get over my fear in order to become a full member of the Society, but can I? I don’t really know.

  I’m drawn to the pretty gun, though. So much so, in fact, that I walk over to get a closer look. I want to touch it. But then again, I don’t. I reach out my hand, tentatively, but a voice to the side of me stops me.

  “No touching the weapons, Ma’am.” I turn to see a police officer glaring at me.

  “I’m sorry. I assumed they were unloaded.”

  “They are, but we still would prefer if you didn’t touch them.”

  “You’d prefer, so I can touch them if I want.”

  “I would ask you not to. You seem a little young for this crowd. Can I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “Have you asked every guest who’s come by here?”

  “No.”

  “Yet, you’re asking me. Is my dress not designer enough for you?” I ask, looking down at the fancy dress Stella gave me to wear. I’m pretty sure it retails for more than his salary for the month, but I got it for free. He has the decency to look embarrassed that he’s been called out. “I have nothing to hide, Officer. I’m here because I’m an intern with the Corrigan & Co. Foundation.”

  “Oh,” he says, his eyes going wide. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Please excuse me.”

  “I accept your apology, but I can’t excuse you. Racial profiling is something I live with every day, but it is not something I will ever accept.”

  “As you shouldn’t,” Dylan Gallagher tells me, walking over to us.

  “I’ll be going back to my post. I truly am sorry.”

  He walks away, and I turn to do the same, but Dylan’s hand on my arm stops me. “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t look like a terrorist.”

  “And what exactly does a terrorist look like, Mr. Gallagher?”

  “Shit. That was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry.”

  “I seem to be hearing that phrase quite a bit this evening.”

  “Yeah, I guess you are,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Call me Dylan please, Neveah.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “My sister told me.”

  “What exactly did she tell you?” I ask, curious since Ellie isn’t my mentor and should have no reason to discuss me with her brother.

  “Just your name. I asked her who the gorgeous girl in the red dress was, and she gave me your name. And a warning to stay away from you.”

  “Well you are better known for your playing off the court, than on it.”

  “You wound me. I’ll have you know that I was MVP. That means ‘Most Valuable Player’.”

  “Did you really just insult my intelligence? And women actually sleep with you?”

  “It happens,” he says with a shrug.

  “You either have a large penis, which is doubtful because of your attitude…”

  “Hey now.”

  “Or you’re good at what you do.”

  “I’ve had no complaints. And, it’s a decent size.”

  “Ah, trying to downplay now. You’re good at reacting, I’ll give you that.”

  “I’m also good at shooting a gun.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You and the cop were facing off over that gun. Do you want to know how to shoot it?”

  “It’s not mine to shoot.”

  He walks over to the listing, and scribbles something on the paper. “After tonight, it will be. Do you want me to teach you how to shoot it? No strings. We can just be friends.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “If I play my cards right, and stop being an ass, maybe I’ll convince you to be more than friends with me.”

  “I didn’t think you needed to put out so much effort to get a girl into your bed.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “Does that ‘oh’ translate to a ‘yes’?”

  “It shouldn’t.”

  “But?”

  “Yes, I’d like to be your friend. And I’d like…I’d like you to teach me how to shoot that gun. I hate them, but I need to get past that.”

  “Perfect,” he says, handing me his phone. “Give me your number and I’ll text you tomorrow to work out the details.

  “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me, or why I hate guns.”

  “I know you’re friends with my sister, so you have to be cool, and you don’t need to tell me all your secrets yet. Now, about that number,” he says, gesturing to the phone in my hands.

  I shouldn’t be doing this. I should just learn from Faith like I’d planned to. That’s the problem, though. I always do what I plan, and what everyone else expects. I want something different this time, something spontaneous just for me. I want to learn to shoot a gun…and I want Dylan Gallagher. So I put my number in his phone and hope that he’s not playing me.

  * * *

  Dylan

  I pull out my phone as soon as I’m away from Neveah. The person I’m calling answers almost immediately.

  “Is it done?”

  “I initiated contact, yes.”

  “And?”

  “She’s going to let me try and help her shoot a gun.”

  “It’s a good start. You need to earn her trust.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “You’ve told me that already. You also promised to see this through.”

  “I owe you, I know that, but is this really necessary?”

  “Are you asking because you’re afraid one woman won’t be able to hold your interest for so long?”

  No. Honestly, just that little taste of Neveah has me intrigued. “No. I can be a one-woman guy.”

  “I know you can, and I also know you will. You gave your word. Earn her trust and then bring her to me. It’s simple, really.”

  “Simple? I can’t make her trust m
e.”

  “You underestimate your appeal, Dylan.”

  “Maybe you overestimate it.”

  “No. This has to happen. There is no other way. She will trust you, and then, when the time is right, you will marry her, and you will bring her to me. Give her your name and keep her away from Reina Corrigan. That is what needs to happen, and you will play your part.”

  I may not like it, but I do owe him. More than I owe anyone else, including my family. I’m going to probably lose at least Ellie once all is revealed, but I made my vow, and I won’t go back on it, even if I do know this plan is all kinds of crazy. I will do everything in my power to protect Neveah, though. She doesn’t deserve any of what’s going to happen to her, and I’ll do what I can to make it easier for her to accept once the dust settles.

  Chapter 1

  Neveah

  Faith has been trying to help me with the guns and so have my friends here at the Society. No one has been able to help me, though. I can throw knives, hit a bullseye with an arrow, and handle every other weapon, just not a gun. I’m hoping tonight will change that. Dylan offered to help me, and I’m taking him up on it. I don’t know what a basketball player can do, but I can’t deny I’m attracted to him. I’ve been with boys before, but he’s all man.

  Tall, with lean muscles and dark brown hair that’s only slightly longer on top than it is on the side, grey eyes that pulled me in the moment he started talking, and the slight stubble covering his cleft chin, all combine to bring women to their knees. Not me, though. I need his help, and I might be more than willing to eventually share his bed, but I bow down to no one except Allah.

  I may have chosen a profession that goes against some of the tenets of my religion, and I’ve already admitted that I’m not a virgin, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love God and pray to him daily. My mother has always kept her faith, even when her husband was killed, so there’s nothing in this world that will cause me to completely abandon mine, either.

  Now I just have to figure out what to wear to an NBA star’s home. I should be asking my friend, Matisse, or even her mentor, Stella, but I don’t want anyone knowing yet. Or maybe ever. For all I know, Dylan is just using this as a ploy to get me into bed, because I’m several years younger than him, and if I’m being honest, a couple of sizes bigger than the women he normally has on his arm. I don’t see what else he’d want from me besides sex. The embarrassment I’d feel if that’s the case would be too great if all my friends knew. It’s better that no one knows, especially not his sister, Ellie, who is a full-fledged member of the Society.

  I decide on a pair of purple skinny jeans and a Hozier concert tee. A black and purple pair of Chucks and my hair in a ponytail completes the look. I am going to try and shoot a gun, not have dinner at a five-star restaurant. If he doesn’t like the look, well I guess it’ll be an early night.

  After driving to the address he gave me, I use the intercom at the gates to announce my arrival. I’m immediately buzzed in, and I marvel as the house comes into view. The modern home is gorgeous, with windows and steel everywhere. It looks like a work of art, and while it’s definitely masculine, it’s not what I expected from a playboy baller.

  The man in question walks outside as I pull my Audi in front of the door. He’s got on a loose muscle shirt and long basketball shorts with his team’s logo running down the side. He’s barefoot, and for some reason, that turns me on a little. Definitely more than the smirk he’s wearing does.

  “Dressed up for me, I see,” he says as I open the car door.

  “Should I have worn a ball gown for the gun range?”

  “No,” he concedes with a full smile now. “Nice ride.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t tell him Matt bought it for me. It’s none of his business.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks as he holds his front door open for me, following me into his living room.

  I am, actually. I had a light lunch at work, but nothing since. “A little, yeah.”

  “I picked up some hummus and stuff I thought you’d like.”

  Here we go again. “I prefer cheeseburgers, pizza, nachos, and beer,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest to glare at him.

  “Shit. I was stereotyping again, wasn’t I?”

  “Pretty much, yeah. I like the food of my childhood, but it reminds me of…times when things were happier for my family. Now I prefer American food.”

  “You don’t eat Middle Eastern food at all?”

  “When I’m with my mother and brother, I sometimes do, but other than that, no.”

  “I can order a pizza.”

  “That would be great. Thanks. I really do appreciate you picking up things you thought I’d like. I know you were trying.”

  “I was. What do you like on your pizza?”

  “Anything except pork.”

  “Is it stereotyping if I ask if that’s because you’re Muslim? You don’t have to tell me. I mean, I want to know you, but if it’s personal...”

  I smile at how nervous he looks. “Yes. I don’t eat pork because I’m a Muslim.”

  “How devout are you?”

  “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I wasn’t. I mean, that’s great. I mean…shit…I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?”

  He’s actually kind of adorable like this. The big, bad ball player is apparently just part of his act. I like this version of him better. That doesn’t mean I’ll resist teasing him a little. “Depends on what it is you’re trying to do.”

  “Impress you?” he asks, instead of stating it.

  “Well then, I’d say you’re doing an incredible job.”

  “You’re impressed by my bumbling?”

  “Yeah, I think I am.”

  * * *

  Dylan

  I like her. I knew that already from when I met her at the gala, and probably even before then. I like that she’s a little shy, but still calls me out when I’m acting stupid. I like her long, wavy, brown hair. I like her slight accent. I like her long legs, and her pouty lips. I simply like everything about her so far.

  That should be a good thing, since I’m going to marry her, right? In reality, it makes everything worse. I want to be attracted to her, because I can’t imagine never having sex again, but liking her—and falling in love with her, which I know now is very possible even though I haven’t thought I was in love with a girl since I was fifteen—are only going to make my betrayal worse. Once she marries me, and everything is revealed, she’s going to hate me. I’ll deserve it, but I don’t know if I’ll survive it.

  I wish I could just reveal everything to her now. Tell her about the person who’s pulling my strings. Explain how I owe my life and so much more to them. But I can’t. I made a promise, and I’ll keep my word. Even knowing that it will eventually destroy us all, I’ll keep it.

  “So, back to the pizza. What’s your favorite?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood, or at least mine.

  “Barbeque chicken. But I’m good with cheese, or veggies if you prefer that.”

  “I prefer all meat, but there’s pork in that, so we’ll go with the chicken.”

  “No. You should get what you want,” she says, putting her hand on my arm to stop me as I take out my phone. “Just get me a small chicken one, and eat whatever you want.”

  “What I want is to kiss you goodnight later. I’m sure eating pork isn’t going to help me with that.”

  She blushes a little, but meets my eyes when she answers. “I wouldn’t let your meal choice stop me from kissing you. If I decide I want a kiss, that is,” she says with a shrug.

  “Oh yeah? So, garlic and onions are okay?”

  “I thought you said you wanted a kiss.”

  “What are my odds here?”

  “Currently around 50/50, but dropping every time you open your mouth.”

  “Chicken pizza it is,” I tell her with a chuckle.

  After calling in the order, I lead her into my kitchen. I se
e her body visibly jerk at the box on the center island. “Is that?”

  “Your gun? Yes. I told you I’d win it for you.”

  “It’s not mine. It’s not registered to me.”

  “I can take you to do that anytime you want. Regardless, it’s yours.”

  I won’t push her. She has to do this on her own. I silently watch as she walks over to the island and stands in front of the box. Her hands shake as she pulls the top off of the box, but I’m proud of her for doing it. With a loud exhale, she peers into the open box and then steps back.

  “I can’t.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Why would I want you to leave?”

  “You only invited me over here so you could help me get over my fear of guns.”

  “No. I invited you here because I like you. I do want to help you, but only when you’re ready for that help.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you tonight.”

  “Sweetheart, if we get anywhere near a bed, sleeping isn’t going to be on the agenda. Trust me on that.”

  “You’re so sweet sometimes, and then you revert back to being an ass.”

  “It’s a true gift,” I tell her, and then have to grab her hand as she starts to storm past me to the door. “Stay. We can watch a movie, or talk. Whatever you want. I’ll try to be more sweet than ass.”

  “Don’t strain yourself on my account.”

  “I’d be more than happy…oh shit, almost delved into ass territory again. Let me try this again. It would be my pleasure to spend the evening with you. What are they calling it now? ‘Netflix and chill’?”

  “That means having sex while Netflix is playing in the background,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  “I know. I just didn’t know if you knew.”