Page 44 of Reckless Devotion

Hatred begins to boil in my stomach, but I fight it back down and open the box I always stuff these moments into, to be forgotten about forever—but this time, I find it crammed full. Mason turns away without so much as blinking, dismissing me the same way he always does.

“One of these days we might fight out what your fuckingproblem is,” I throw at his retreating back, placing my nearly empty bottle onto the coffee table with a little more force than needed.

Three sets of stunned eyes turn my way from each corner of the couch—my sister’s jaw even drops. Mason pauses, his head turning just enough to allow us to see his apathetic side profile, and it strikes me at this moment that if it weren’t for Mia, I probably wouldn’t see my brother at all now that our mom isn’t around to drag us back together.

“Don’t, Mason,” Mia warns him softly, turning her head toward his stiff back.

“It’s fine, I’m going anyway,” I grumble, ignoring the concerned looks from the girls as I get up and turn my back on all of them to stride for the lobby. I don’t give a fuck that I’ve got this stupid shit on my face, and for once I also don’t care that I just showed the people I love a part of me I pretend doesn’t exist.

Chapter 17

Pepper:Why the FUCK is there a picture of us all over the internet?

Chase:We must have been snapped at the courthouse.

Pepper:Well, do something about it!

Chase:I’ll fire up the time machine I made out of all the junk you left in my workshop.

Pepper:Sue them.

Chase:Sue who? The sixteen-year-old kid who posted it?

Pepper:I’m serious.

Chase:It only goes away if you ignore it.

Pepper:Hard to do that when thousands of people are sharing it.

Chase:Just trust me.

Pepper:I’ll pass on that, but thanks for the offer.

Rosie:What the fuck is this photo with Walker?

Pepper:It’s not what it looks like.

Rosie:It better not be.

PEPPER

“I amnotgoing into that monstrosity!” Mr. Clay digs his heels into the grimy sidewalk with alarming strength, considering he’s using two walking sticks.

“Mr. Clay,” Chase starts calmly from where he supports Mr. Clay’s other elbow. “You should really be in a wheelchair, it’s the safest—”

“Tosh!” He whips the arm nearest me out of my grip and takes a small step forward, his scuffed dress shoes shuffling. “I’ll take the train.”

“Err, is he going to make it?” Sunny asks, her brows knitting together as dazzling midday sunshine turns her hair luminescent popsicle pink.

I meet Chase’s gaze and we share a split second in which we mutually weigh our own guilty consciences, before we turn in unison to head after Mr. Clay, leaving behind the large boxy accessibility van Chase hired to transport him home. The sounds of weekend traffic clog the sidewalk, skyscrapers breathing down our backs in every direction, and it’s hotter than Satan’s armpit this time of year.

It’s been awkward since we both showed up at the pre-agreed time to help Mr. Clay back home. He’s got a new hip, all the walking aids in the world, and the same general disdain for anyone who isn’t the British royal family. Presumably.

When Chase positioned his strong, broad frame over me yesterday, it was like all logic whipped out of my head and scampered away to somewhere off-map. It felt teasing, natural, and dark in a way that makes my stomach clench even now just thinking about it. Gone were the thoughts about how I thought he had to be corrupt, and the ones about me not dating rich guys. All that was left was the simmering warmth his darkwhiskey eyes glistened with as he devoured me with them. It’s intoxicating. Chase Walker is, regrettably, intoxicating.

I can no longer deny that I see snippets of something good in him. The way he interacts with his family, the heartbreakingly tender way he cradled his mother while she sobbed, and the unwavering determination to stop his tech from being misused. The man behind the austere veil is perhaps not all bad.

Even still, I’m carrying around a tight knot of worry about my image being blasted all over social media. My entire world is constructed around keeping as low a public and digital presence as ever, and I bear the faint bruises beneath my eyes after a sleepless night trying to scrub what I can from the internet. But that’s just the thing— once something is on the internet, you can never truly put the cat back in the bag. The network is too big, and with too many trillions of moving pieces. It’s like playing whack-a-mole with no hands.