Page 92 of A Little Tempting

The sound of his work boots scuffing against the concrete ground grates on my nerves as he circles me slowly, but I don’t follow the movement. I simply wait. For what? Who the hell knows. But communicating with the bastard is a waste of breath, so why give him the satisfaction? Nah. Especially not where Dylan’s concerned.

He doesn’t even deserve to think her name, let alone say it. And if he pieces together my feelings for her, I’ll never forgive myself.

“Tell me something,” he demands, trying a different tactic. “Do you actually think I’ll let you walk out of here without assault charges?”

I ignore him, choosing to stare at the two-way mirror instead. Is someone in there? Is someone watching?

“You always were a stupid, stupid boy. Causin’ trouble. Fuckin’ up your life the same way you fucked up mine.” My eyes snap to him, and he tilts his head. “You think you’ll keep your scholarship after I finish with you?”

Annoyance licks through my veins, but I don’t give in. Don’t throw a fit or say a fucking word. Because I know what he wants. I knowexactlywhat he wants. He wants me to be mad. To make a scene. To muddy the waters and incriminate myself when we both know he already has enough on me.

The slap of his palms against the cold surface of the table rings throughout the otherwise silent room as he glares down at me. “Might as well kiss your NHL career goodbye right here, right now, boy, which means you can kiss your girl goodbye, too, because it’s clear a girl like her would only slum it with you for one reason.”

My molars threaten to grind, but I keep my face blank, staring straight ahead of me as if the asshole doesn’t exist, which, to him, is worse than death.

The door opens again, and our heads snap in its direction. My dad pushes himself away from the table, smoothing out the front of his uniform. “McDonnell,” he acknowledges.

“His lawyer’s here,” McDonnell tells him.

A grating laugh cuts through the tension as my dad slaps his hand against his knee like he’s fuckin’ Santa Claus. “Reeves? Reeves doesn’t have a lawyer.”

“The attorney at the front of the station says differently,” McDonnell argues.

My brows raise as McDonnell’s words wash over me. My dad’s right. I don’t have a lawyer. I’m saving every fucking penny for a rainy day, since I’m not stupid enough to believe I can play in the NHL forever.

So, who the hell is McDonnell talking about?

And why does my dad look scared shitless for the first time in his life?

Shifting in my chair, I can’t help the shit-eating grin from nearly splitting my face in two as I take him in.

Well, would you look at that? Seems my dad does have something he’s afraid of, and someone gifted me with a front-row seat to see his fear up close and personal.

24

DYLAN

Ican’t sleep. I stare up at the bedroom ceiling, counting Finley’s breaths in the otherwise silent room. She’s out cold beside me. Has been for at least an hour.

After showering, I slipped on Reeves’ hoodie, headed back to my bedroom, and received a call from my parents. All they said was the lawyer was at the precinct, and they’d keep me updated.

That’s it.

Now, here I am, attempting to sleep despite knowing it’s pretty freaking impossible. Annoyed, I throw off the covers. Remembering the sleeping zombie beside me, I slip out of bed more carefully. After sliding on my glasses from the nightstand, I close the bedroom door with a quiet click, then pad down the stairs and into the kitchen. The lights are off, but I don’t mind. Honestly, the dark is the only thing quieting my brain right now. I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water. The cool moisture seeps into my parched tastebuds. When I lick my bottom lip, it stings, reminding me of everything that happened tonight.

My head still pounds, making it hard to see straight, let alone form a coherent thought, even though I took my contacts out as soon as I turned on the water for my shower.

I search the cupboards for some Advil, hoping I won’t have to pull out the big boy pain meds. They knock me on my ass. Then again, I could probably use the sedative after my shitty night. When a soft creak echoes behind me, I almost jump out of my skin, and the glass crashes to the ground. It splinters into a thousand pieces around my bare feet as I turn around, searching the dark kitchen. My heart rate rivals a hummingbird’s wings as my already-drained body floods with the last of my adrenaline. Honestly, I’m surprised I have any left. The patio light paints shadows through the window, highlighting the man in front of me, and my body sags against the counter in relief.

Reeves.

He’s back.

The realization doesn’t ease my galloping pulse, but I force my lungs to expel the oxygen they hold.

Sensing how on edge I am, Reeves’ eyes fill with concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just…you’re back,” I whisper, careful not to wake anyone else in the house.