Page 152 of Studs Up
I grabbed Nolan’s arm and held it tight.
“Get him the fuck out of here,” Charlemagne growled through his thick accent. The security guards had to fight through a small passage the crowd created.
There was an anger in Nolan’s eyes that I had never seen before, and it was terrifying. He pulled me closer and slid his hand into mine, squeezing so hard the bones grated together.
“You don’t belong to him,” Marcel screamed through a broken nose and rivers of blood. “You belong to me. I’m the one who helped you-” Whatever else he had to say was lost when the door closed. He was only muffled noises now.
I felt sick. My stomach churned at the thought that Marcel had been the one to record our love and use it to threaten Nolan. I didn’t know if it was better or worse than a stranger watching those moments.
It was worse, I decided. Marcel had looked us both in the eyes, knowing what he was doing to me, and kept going.
“That’s what changed,” Nolan turned to me. He was fighting his anger so hard. “The cameras?”
I nodded. I was either going to cry or pass out.
“That’s why you couldn’t go in the house,” Nolan breathed.
“How did you know about that?” I asked, surprised.
“Alex told me,” he said casually like he always had conversations with Alex.
I rounded on Alex.
“You called him?”
“Woah, no,” Alex took a step back, distancing himself from Nolan. “He called me.”
I rounded back on Nolan, who shrugged like it was no big deal. I was riding a violent roller coaster that I very much wanted to get off.
Murmurs and whispers were filling the room now.
“I think,” Santos cleared his throat. “That we’re gonna need an explanation.”
I swallowed the bile down. I squeezed Nolan’s hand back.
“I’m gonna be sick,” I whispered. Marcel wanted to sleep with me after sending those awful texts.
Nolan didn’t hesitate and steered me to a bench, sitting me down.
“Easy,” he said. “Put your head down.”
It was hard to breathe. My chest was tight, and my stomach, full of alcohol, was roiling violently.
“Let me get this straight.” Quinn broke the silence. “You two have been fucking since January.”
“Not your business,” Nolan barked, then whispered to me, “Breathe.”
But getting in the air was hard.
“This is the man you broke it off with? Nolan Reed?” Charlemagne said.
I bobbed my head, and that felt like a mistake, too. Nolan’s thumb stroked over my hand, and everything eased. The tightness in my chest and the sloshing in my stomach. Not quite enough to look up yet, but enough to gain my bearings.
“You were right,” he said contemplatively. “Love is complicated.”
“Someone explain, right fucking now!” Coach Nelson shouted.
In the choppy seas of nausea, I found Nolan’s eyes. Strong and warm and solely focused on me. He looked sad for the first time. Another layer of our closely guarded privacy was being stripped away.
