Page 35 of The Fake Divination Offense
I laugh and lean down to put my lips against his.
He makes a startled chirp but doesn’t pull away. Lingers there, and it isn’t a kiss; it’s a mutual breath.
“Do your worst, Mr. Warden,” I say.
He shivers again.
I clench my jaw and force myself to peel away from him, take my hands off his face.
Alexo: PR stunt.
“Can you—” I scratch flakes of salt out of my beard. “Um. Can I walk you back to the cheerleader locker room?”
Dazed again, Alexo nods, but it’s stilted, unsteady, and pulls a breathless smile to my face.
If he’s this blissed out after two barely there kisses, what would he look like after—
Don’t.Do not evenfinishthat question, Orok Monroe.
I cough away the tightening in my throat and hook my arm around his waist.
“I—no! Wait.” Alexo bursts back to clarity and wiggles out of my grip.
I stand in the middle of the still-celebrating crowd, arms out.
“No,” he repeats. Harder. An order. “I can get there on my own. Thank you. And—I’ll see you next week?”
Then he’s gone, slinking away into the crowd that swallows him up.
I brace against wanting to rip everyone aside until I get eyes back on him.
He doesn’t want me going to the cheerleader locker room.
I scan the crowd. I clock one of the publicists near the doors to the player tunnel and beeline to her, the noise of the stadium a dull background hum.
“Is there someone waiting for Alexo?” I demand.
She blinks up at me from where she’d been entering notes on a tablet. “Um—I’m sorry, Mr. Monroe, I don’t under—”
“Is there a man waiting for Alexo near the cheerleader locker room?” I try again, saying each word through my teeth. The back of my neck prickles with the urge to race in and find out myself, but I have enough prescience of mind to not do that.
“Y-yes. Oh!” She seems to have a realization. “Itisthe guy from the bar, but Mr. Warden told us it was a misunderstanding. I believe they live together. We’ve been assured he isn’t a boyfriend, if that’s what you’re concerned about? Luckily, no one’s seemed to focus on who the guy at the bar was, so our narrative stands, and we don’t need to worry about—”
I stop listening, my awareness narrowing.
Theylivetogether?
That assholelives with Alexo? And hedaredto treat him like an object at the bar? Dared to put hishands on him?
Hypocrisy tastes bitter, but I’m too furious to give it more than a passing flinch.
“You knew Alexo was living with that jackass?” I snap.
The publicist trembles.
Because she’s five feet nothing and I’ve trapped her against the recessed door’s wall to growl random, accusatory questions at her.
I’m shunted out of my fugue state and throw my hands up in surrender. My damn rawball padding makes it impossible to shrink myself at all, so I take a step back, thankful the bulk of the crowd is still in the sideline area so there’s plenty of room to give the publicist space.
