Page 64 of Dangle

My forehead dropped to the hand that still wrapped around the door with a groan. “This is stupid.”

His big hand clamped down on my shoulder, pulling me away from the door as he said, “Walk with me. I need to cool down, and you can explain what’s stupid.”

Half a block down the street, Ewen stopped to stretch against a bike rack. “You gonna talk or keep twisting whatever has you tied up in knots so bad you can’t pull open a door?”

“He’s not called or texted.” The words rushed into the space between us before I even registered them.

“Does he have your number?” Ewen asked.

I shrugged. Ewen in Nashville laughed and cut up with his buddies and mine, meshing with the whole group. But something about him here in Manchester made me feel small, almost childish, vulnerable even, but not in a weird, horrible way. Not the way my father made me feel.

“Well, he’s not gonna call or text if he doesn’t have your number, and he can’t stalk your ass on the ice like he did before Nashville since The U’s season ended. So, what are you gonna do about it?” he asked, moving away from the bike rack.

I followed along, even though racing back to the club felt like a better move than walking away from it. “I dunno.”

“You wanna repeat that loud enough that I can hear it? Maybe try moving your lips and tongue this time so actual words come out of your mouth instead of grunts and groans.”

“You’re an asshole. You know that?”

“I’m aware. Doesn’t change the fact that you were muttering under your breath instead of owning your stupid.”

I stopped. Feet planted. Fists clenched. “I’m not fucking stupid.”

“Then quit acting like it,” Ewen said without even looking back at me.

He continued walking away from me while I stood watching the sweat-soaked shirt pull and stretch over his broad back.

Swearing, I threw my hands up and dropped them again in a rough, frustrated shake before I stalked back to the club without another word to Ewen. Fuck this shit. I wanted Slone. So much so, I’d not fucked anything other than my hand since before Nashville. Barely any thought of anything other than him and how amazing I felt while with him crossed my mind in the last two months. Even before my dad did what my dad did best—be a fucking prick—and before I got drunk off my ass because putting up with Donnie Malachek’s brand of parenting always sent me spiraling. Slone treated me like I had worth that had nothing to do with my last name, and even though he was a fan, it didn’t seem like that was all he was interested in.

When I reached the door, I yanked it open without pause, stepping into subtle opulence: tiled floors, wood-paneled walls, large chandeliers. But none of it captured my attention like the man standing at the reception desk. Slone stood next to another man, a big, brawny guy who nodded along with every word Slone’s mouth formed. The registration desk sat too far away?—

The door slammed, and I jumped. My face heated, whether from the scare of the heavy door slamming shut behind me or the weight of Slone’s and his friend’s gazes.

“Um…hi.”

Fuck, could I be any lamer?

The guy beside Slone darted his gaze from me to Slone back to me back to Slone all while the furrowed, confused browsmoothed out as his mouth turned from a shocked ‘O’ to a wide grin. Hip-checking Slone, the guy pushed him away from the desk with a loud enough to carry, “I got this.”

Slone, whose eyes hadn’t left mine, made his way toward me, hesitant at first, then faster and more confident but still not what one would call quick. More measured and controlled. Certain that he would pause when he reached me, he disappointed me. No, that sounded harsh. He had no control over my expectations or knowledge of them.

So, when Slone walked by me, I stared after him, then looked back at the guy Slone had been talking to.

“Go!” he mouthed with a shooing wave, his face contorting dramatically to help make his point.

An elevator ding rang through the cavernous lobby, spurring me into action. Slone already stood in the car—crossed arms, legs spread, gaze straight ahead—when I got to the bank of elevators. The door was half closed, but I skidded through sideways, causing it to bounce open again as I came to a stop next to him.

I chanced a glance at him. All I got was his profile. He stared straight ahead without acknowledging me in the least. The deep breath I only just realized I’d sucked in as I slid through the closing elevator door and still held, escaped with the force of a prison break, making my cheeks puff out dramatically. It most likely looked ridiculous. The wood-paneled elevator gave no hints, though. Thank fuck. Insecurity already waged war on my system. Visual evidence of it would only make things worse.

The elevator came to a stop. The door slid open. I held myself still, waiting. Slone exited with a soft, barely audible huff. I stepped out behind him, staying close enough that I could feel his presence yet far enough away to give him space should he whirl around on me. In the last eight weeks, I’d learned what a Marine was capable of. I’d also learned the differences betweenthe branches. I’d even poked around looking for info about Slone and his friends. I drew the line at hiring an agency when my own searches came up empty. Coach Storm’s words about only needing to be Trey Malachek still played in my head. I wasn’t Donald or Donnie. I was Trey. They might keep files on people to use for leverage, or whatever, but I refused to be them.

Slone paused outside a large metal sliding door. Looking around, the door and this whole floor looked completely out of place for the old bank the club was in, but architecture wasn’t my thing, so what did I know? Metal rubbed against metal, and when the door opened, it revealed a blank wall. Slone walked in, but didn’t wait for me. He just disappeared inside, leaving a yawning opening between us. I stepped inside, following him.

“Shut the damn door. This isn’t a fucking barn.”

I spun on my heel, pulled the door closed before tracing his voice into a large open area, finding an industrial loft complete with exposed bricks and beams and open metal stairs. A beautiful space made even more gorgeous by the man standing opposite me, palms pressed against the kitchen island, head hung between his arms.

“Did you lock it?” he asked.