Page 31 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
I took a sip, letting the creamy liquid soothe the burn of curiosity, of longing. “There’s a common theory called the structural strain theory
. A way to describe people with deviant behavior.”
Adrian snickered. “I know something about deviant behavior.”
“Conformists are those who believe in society’s rules and follow them to try and achieve their goals. Ritualists don’t believe in society’s rules but follow them anyway.” I fell into the second category. My experience as both an adopted child and at the hands of those men had crushed any belief of true acceptance. But still I went to college, like my parents expected me to do. I followed the rules because it was the only chance I had at a normal life. The only chance to have a family.
“And Philip?”
“Would be classified as an innovator,” I admitted. “He accepts the cultural goals of society—wealth, power. Independence. But he disregards the rules.”
Adrian studied me, looking fascinated. “And you admire that, don’t you?”
A sound at the door had us both jerking, startled—hot chocolate sloshing in the mug.
Philip strode into the room. He took me in with an enigmatic glance. “Why are your cheeks red?”
Oh God. “Are they?”
I pressed my hands to my cheeks, and sure enough they were hot. Him mentioning them only made them burn hotter.
Philip’s eyes flared. He stalked closer.
Adrian mumbled something about the wine cellar and left the kitchen. For a split second I wondered if he was leaving to give his boss privacy or if it hurt him to see the man he loved lust after someone else. Because there could be no mistaking the heat in Philip’s eyes as he took me in, head to toe.
There could be no mistaking the heat in my body either, as I watched Philip. He had an aristocratic nose and piercing eyes, dark hair and sensual lips. It was impossible to ignore the size of him. My body reacted subconsciously, shrinking as if to make room for something bigger, making myself small in front of a threat.
“What were you talking about?” the threat asked softly.
“You.”
His lips quirked. “And what’s the verdict?”
Guilty of a lot of things, probably. Justified in some of them, at least according to the unwritten rules of the criminal underworld if not our legal system. I doubted a charge would ever stick, despite that cop at the dorm and his warrant.
“Why?” I asked softly. “Commit any crimes lately?”
“Only ten since breakfast.” There he went—innovating again. What I didn’t mention to Adrian was that the strain theory suggested that social structures actually pressured some people to commit crimes. And it rejected the idea that deviation was necessarily a bad thing.
I took a sip of hot chocolate, feeling warmth slide down my center. Somehow even the act of drinking became sensual when Philip was in the room—and when he studied my mouth, heat banked in his eyes.
Fighting to distract myself from the ache between my legs, I asked, “What was the first crime you committed?”
One eyebrow rose. “Trying to use your psychology shit on me?”
“Sociology shit,” I corrected.
“What’s the difference?”
“Psychology is the study of an individual person.” And while context certainly came into play, it wasn’t enough for me. A person didn’t exist in a vacuum. A man in a suit wasn’t only a businessman or the leader of a crime organization. A girl in a tight dress wasn’t only a call girl or a victim. “Sociology is about how people interact with each other.”
“I see.”
He didn’t. “It’s about digging into a person. Archeology on the personal level.”
He looked amused. “And that’s what you’d do to me? Dig?”
I flushed with heat, without quite knowing why. It wasn’t dirty, what he’d say. It just felt that way when he stood two feet from me, close enough that I could smell his aftershave.
