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  “Dude’s playing with you.” There’s an edge to Collin’s tone. “Hey, my room’s always there for you if you need it, all right? I sleep out half the time, anyway. And don’t forget Ed’s room’s now free. Your gal pal doesn’t seem like she’s interested in leaving Jo’s room, so…” He sighs. “You’re better than his bullshit head games, Tim-Tim.”

  “I know.” I breathe out. “But he’s just so—”

  Mel and Jo’s footsteps descending the stairs cut me off.

  On another pathetic sigh, I turn my face up at Collin and promise, “I won’t let him hurt me.”

  But Collin isn’t even remotely smiling when he says in the most menacing tone I’ve ever heard him use, “He better not.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Is that Ben Affleck or Ryan Reynolds? I never get it right with those two. I’m convinced their dad slept around.

  We’re watching some kind of superhero movie, which I suppose is an adaptation of a Marvel comic. I don’t particularly care for these kind of films. Not my cup of tea.

  I’m bored.

  Collin is riveted, stuffing handful after handful of popcorn in his mouth. So is Jo. Melanie looks meh—this isn’t her kind of movie, either. She’s a horror and thriller girl who grins while others scream and quiver in fear. Kind of a psychopath, to be honest.

  A skinny white dude sitting to my left grumbles out a curse at his bladder as he gets up and ducks out of the row.

  I lean to the right and whisper in Collin’s ear, “Hey, how long is this movie?”

  Distracted, he shrugs and answers around a mouthful of popcorn. “Dunno. Three hours?”

  Three. Hours? I dig my cell from my purse and check the time on the screen. Oh, crap on a cracker, there’re two more hours to go!

  I give a resigned sigh, lean back in my seat, and attempt to watch the film with an open mind.

  About three minutes later, the owner of the seat on my left returns. Except he’s giving off a lot more heat. Must be really hot in the men’s bathroom. Maybe he used the hand dryer too long?

  In the next breath, I feel a set of masculine fingers lace themselves, forcefully, through mine, on my lap.

  I freeze, because this is not Collin. It’s the skinny white guy with the heat. Lots of heat.

  Bewildered beyond speech, I glance down at my lap. At my fingers. My fingers that are now entwined with fingers that are not skinny and pasty, but long, strong, and olive.

  My heart ricocheting off my ribs, I swivel my head in slow motion to the left. And there he sits. Jaxon King. Fresh and bold. Ice blues bright in the dark theater.

  What the bloody hell is he doing here? Where’s Nadine?

  And why—

  Nope. Nope. I’m not doing this with him.

  No.

  Pressing my lips in a flat line, I attempt to untangle from him, but he keeps me from doing so by tightening his fingers around mine.

  “Don’t.”

  “I’m here with Col,” I grit out.

  “Don’t care.”

  I bristle. “Just who do you think you are?”

  “Yours.”

  I shake my head, positive I heard wrong. “Bollocks. You can’t just disappear for a whole week sans contact, reappear with a bad attitude—with your bloody girlfriend in tow—then barge in here and hijack my date. Show some respect for your bloody teammate.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Er, excuse me, sir. But you’re in my seat.” We both look up. Skinny dude is back, for real this time.

  “Sit somewhere else,” Jaxon mumbles and brings his attention back to me.

  “Are you kidding me?” the lad snaps back. “Do you see how packed it is in here? There’s nowhere else to sit.”

  With an annoyed grunt, Jaxon uses his free hand to dig his wallet out of his pocket, deftly removes two bills, and lets the wallet fall to his lap. He offers the bills to the lad. “Go away. Thanks.”

  Hesitantly the kid accepts the bills, squints at them, and his face brightens. “Whoa. Okay, cool. No problem. I’ll just, uh, come back and see it tomorrow.” Crushing the bills tight in his fist, he hurries off, as if he’s afraid Jaxon might change his mind about the bribe.

  Jaxon looks at me again.

  “You’re a bully,” I mutter.

  “You’re a beauty.”

  “What are you doing here, Jaxon?” Collin’s voice is acerbic, edgy. I’m surprised he’s able to take his eyes off the big screen.

  Jaxon’s gaze shifts just above my head to Collin. “Doing what I told you I’d do.”

  For an interminable amount of time, they stare each other down. During which I again attempt to extricate my fingers from Jaxon’s and am once again thwarted.

  What the hell does he mean by “Doing what I told you I’d do?” They talked about me?

  “Stop. Playing. With her,” Collin grinds out in a staccato. “She’s better than you.”

  “But not better enough for you to stop screwing around with her?” Jaxon retorts in a bored tone.

  “Jaxon,” I say.

  Collin starts to stand. “Switch seats with me, Tim-Tim.”

  Jaxon squeezes my fingers in warning. “Don’t move.”

  A couple sitting in the row in front of us turns and gives us stink stares. People behind us grumble for us to shut up.

  “Switch with me,” Collin prompts, ignoring the disapproving comments being hurled our way.

  “Hey, what’s going on down there?” This from Melanie, who’s poking her head around Jo to peer down the row. Jo remains transfixed on the screen.

  Trapped between two hostile males and a million glares from patrons, I jerk to my feet and, with force, rip my hand from Jaxon’s. “Okay, I’m done. This is too bizarre. I’m leaving.”

  “Hey, assholes, sit down!” someone shouts from the back.

  I turn to Collin. “Finish your movie. I’ll be fine. I promise.” He makes as if he’s about argue, but then he nods and lowers back down in his seat.

  To Jaxon I say, “You can go to hell. I’m going back to the flat. Do not follow me.”

  He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even blink. Just stares up at me sans emotion, like the brick he is.

  I feel irritated and turned on and heated and irate all at the same time as I shuffle out of the row and exit the cinema.

  Outside the building, I stand at the edge of the sidewalk and try to land a cab. It’s busy out here—noisy gaggles of chattering teenagers loitering, amorous couples going at it against filthy, piss-stained walls and light posts, smoking beggars, and cab-hailers like myself.

  He’s behind me. I can feel him like I can feel my own heartbeat. I’m not surprised, though. It’s not as if I really expected him not to follow me. Ignoring his presence, ignoring his flames, I keep my focus on the lookout for oncoming cabs.

  “Even I know you wouldn’t enjoy that film.”

  I don’t acknowledge him.

  “Come with me,” he demands. “I know just the film for you. It’s still fiction but based off real-life events.”

  As a cab approaches, its headlights spotlighting us, I step out to flag it down.

  It doesn’t stop.

  His fingers curling around my arm, he tugs me back to the curb and pulls me close. “Hey, why’re you so mad?”

  I attempt to twist free, but he holds my face and forces me to look at him. I remain mute.

  “If anyone deserves to be mad here, it’s me,” he says.

  I raise an incredulous eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

  “You sleep in my bed, you let me hold you, you let me kiss you, and then you go off and get all…lovey-dovey with him.”

  My body is hot, and I’m not entirely certain whether it’s from rational anger or irrational lust. “Have you forgotten that everything you and I do is fake? Pretend? All for the benefit of whoever’s watching?”

  “If it’s all so fake, why’re you mad at me?”

  With a forced eye roll, I spit out, “I’m not mad at you. I just don�
��t like you. Period.”

  “Okay.” Under the streetlights, I can see a small smile tugging at his lips. “Does that mean you don’t want to see the other movie with me?”

  “Where do you go when you disappear?” I demand.

  He sobers. “Can’t tell you that.”

  I jerk away from him. “Then, no. I don’t want to see a movie with you.”

  As I start to move off, he catches me and reels me back to him. “Timber, I can’t tell you because it’s business. Classified business.”

  “Classified business with your girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  As if slapped, I lurch back. “So, you don’t deny she’s your girlfriend?”

  “She’s a girl, and she’s my friend.”

  I bite my lip. “You sound like Sheldon Cooper.”

  “Good.” His eyes lose their seriousness. “Because I happen to know you like Sheldon Cooper. Maybe if I try to sound like him more often, you’ll start liking me.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “You look really good tonight.”

  I scoff. “Gee, thanks for letting me know that I otherwise look like shite.”

  I glance down at my attire. I’m wearing opaque black stockings as usual, black shorts with gold buttons, topped off with a mocha, close-fitted, cowl-neck sweater and quiet ballet flats. My hair is caught up in a high, loose ponytail, unruly bangs hanging in the usual mess over my forehead.

  Huh. Maybe I did dress nicely tonight but not intentionally. Shorts are horrors I don’t normally wear in public, but Collin ordered these, and I think they’re cute, so I figured I’d try them. Turns out they, apparently, make me look good.

  Jaxon combs his long fingers through my bangs, attempting to tame them. “Every Fiona has her Shrek.”

  I shoot my fist out and deliver a solid punch to his shoulder.

  Only his eyes smile. “Movie?”

  I groan. “I’m not a movie person, Jaxon.”

  “Come on.” He hooks a finger in the cowl of my sweater and tugs me into him. “I’ll make it an experience for you.”

  “I— Okay, fine.” I give in, melting into him.

  “Hey.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You better kiss me.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re watching.”

  Against all that I know is right and wrong, black and white, clean and unclean, I tip up, and I kiss him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Ormgreerd, thif foovie ist sfo goofd,” I garble around a mouthful of popcorn.

  The film Jaxon chose is a badarse, guns blazing action-adventure set in London and based on true events. And it’s just what he promised it would be, an experience.

  The seats are amazingly comfy, fitted with convenient foot stools for us to kick our feet up on. Earlier, a waitress offered us menus with more sophisticated selections than popcorn and hot dogs, and Jaxon encouraged me to order whatever I wanted, so I did. Samosas, popcorn shrimp, spring rolls, sweet potato fries, and a big ole bag of buttery popcorn.

  The food is good. The seats are good. The movie is good. The feels are good.

  Jaxon gives a low chuckle.

  A man just had his brains blown out on screen, so that can’t be what he’s laughing at. I glance in his direction.

  He’s watching me, amusement prancing across his features.

  Even though the menu had vegan options, he never ordered anything. He’s just been lounging back in his seat, one arm thrown over his head. And each time I glance over at him, I’m met with his gaze on me.

  “You’re not watching the movie.”

  “Already saw it.”

  “When?”

  “Before it came out.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  He gives me nothing. “Watch the movie. An awesome scene is coming up.”

  Only because I’m honest-to-God enjoying the film do I obey and turn back to the screen.

  A moment later, my arm is rudely and abruptly bumped off my armrest, and before I can turn and ask him what his deal is, he reaches over, slides his fingers through mine, and brings both our arms back onto the armrest.

  Jeez. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re obsessed with touching me,” I mutter.

  “In that case, you don’t know any better.”

  My eyebrows dip. “So, you are obsessed with touching me?”

  All I get is a half smile.

  Our fingers remain entwined for the remainder of the movie. The movie that I alone watch while Jaxon watches me.

  I’ve never felt this warm and fuzzy and tingly giddy in, well, ever. There lives a constant fluttering in my belly. Is this what lovestruck fools speak of when they refer to butterflies? If this is butterflies, I quite like it. No shade here. I’m warm and fuzzy and tingly and giddy enough not to give a damn that he already has a girlfriend. In this moment, all I care about is how he makes me feel inside.

  Nadine might have had him for the past six days, but I have him now. All his attention, and all his touches and kisses and half smiles.

  I bathe in them. Swathe myself in the moment like it’s a guilty-pleasure blankie. Because as good as it feels, I know it won’t last.

  We’re both lying to each other. We both have agendas. And the less real we make this, the less we feel.

  And the easier the end will be.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The movie was good. The experience was good. Jaxon made it good.

  We’re the last to leave the theater, because he’s weird like that. His arm is slung around my shoulders. My smile is a secret because I like it.

  “You good?” he asks as we exit the building.

  Never been better. “Uh-huh.”

  A cab at the curb honks to let us know it’s available, but Jaxon ignores it and keeps moving.

  “Hey.” I nudge him. “We’re walking home?”

  “You wanna walk?”

  Doesn’t he know that I’ll creep, crawl, belly-slide home, as long as I get to do it with him? “I don’t mind.”

  Two blocks later, he comes to a stop in front of a green-and-black motorbike parked beside a post. I recognize it as the ninja bike from the garage.

  Directly across the street, almost as a backdrop to the motorbike, is a billboard of a stunning woman with my own eyes and my own nose. Wild blond curls billow around her. It appears as if she is looking straight at me. But that’s just wishful thinking. Saskia Day is looking out at the world.

  My sister is always looking at the world. Always has.

  I force my eyes from the billboard to the bike. “You rode this here? In this crazy city where everyone drives like a maniac?”

  He shrugs, and his hand falls from around me. He moves to the motorcycle and unlocks the helmet from where it’s chained to one of the handles, then returns to me, and his fingers are in my bangs again. “You ever been on a bike before?”

  As I start to shake my head with wide-eyed vehemence, he jerks the helmet on over my poof of wild hair.

  “Motorbikes are responsible for nearly a fifth of all road deaths,” I inform him. “Eighty percent of motorbike fatalities are on account of head injuries. The velocity at which your body is thrown from a motorbike in the case of an accident is twice the speed at which the bike was going at the time of the accident. This explains why a body is wind-ripped into multiple parts in motorbike accidents that occur on highways or at junctions.” My words are muffled by the helmet. “So, no, I have never been on one.”

  “Good.” He flips up the visor so he can look into my eyes. “I hate bikes, too. But how about I make this your second experience for the night? I’ll be your first ride and your last.”

  Thankfully, my cheeks are hidden by the helmet, so he doesn’t see how hot they burn from that inadvertent promise. Jaxon will most definitely be my first ride. And if God is kind and generous and a true miracle worker like the Bible swears he is, then Jaxon will also be my last.

  “Why’d you ride it,
then?” I manage.

  He swings one long leg over the bike to straddle it, then starts it up. “To catch up with you.”

  Wha—uh—what? Is he saying— Did he race out after me?

  Kicking up the kickstand, he stands the bike upright and jerks his chin down. “See that little peg there?”

  I nod.

  “Put your right foot on it and swing your left up and over to the peg on the other side.”

  I do as he instructs.

  “Flip the visor down and wrap your arms around me.”

  Done as well.

  His head turns to the side, and he asks, “How do you feel?”

  Weak in lust. Weak in will. Weak in heart. “Um…”

  “Ready?”

  “Yes. I feel ready.”

  For everything.

  With one hand, he reaches back and gives my thigh a reassuring squeeze. He revs ups, and then we soar. Traffic is light, and the lights all turn green at our approach.

  Everything fades. It’s just us and the wind. I rest my head to his back and let the rush take over.

  It’s perfect.

  It’s an experience.

  We’ve been riding for more than an hour now, even though the cinema’s just fifteen minutes from the loft. On a motorbike, we should have been back in half that time.

  But I’m not complaining. I like the idea that he’s enjoying this as much as I am. I get off on the idea that he doesn’t want it to end, either.

  At long last, he roars into the garage from the alley entrance, and we dismount.

  He removes the helmet from my head, hooks it to the handle of the bike, and his fingers are in my bangs, again.

  Annoyed, I slap his hand away. “Why are you always messing with my bangs?”

  “Because they’re unruly.”

  “I like them unruly.”

  “I do, too.”

  “Then stop trying to school them, yeah?”

  “I lied.”

  I snort. “What’s new?”

  His fingers returning to my bangs, he moves in closer. “I like touching your hair because I like how it feels. And I like the scent it leaves on my fingers.” His fingers drift down to my cheek.