Everything for Us (The Bad Boys #3)(19)
Author: M. Leighton

No one.

I hear the first syllable of Nash’s rebuttal. With my eyes on Millicent, I swallow hard, fix my smile in place, and dig my nails into Nash’s arm, a silent plea for him not to say whatever he’s thinking of saying. I hear the angry huff of his breath, but he doesn’t utter another sound, not a single word. I can practically feel the cool air emanating from him, though. He doesn’t like being muzzled.

“This was last-minute and Nash had something else planned. Technically, I’m not even supposed to be back in the country,” I say conspiratorially.

“Then why are you?”

“Some, um, some personal things came up that needed my attention.”

“Personal things, huh?” I know that look in her eye. It’s the same look a shark gets when it scents blood in the water.

Damn you, why didn’t you think of how to handle all this before you got here? I chastise myself, albeit far too late.

“Yes, you remember what those are, right? Before we were suddenly expected to live our life in public?”

“When was that? When we were two years old?”

“Exactly.” I laugh again, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

Millicent grew up in a privileged family, much as I did, with certain . . . expectations. She knows exactly what I mean. The problem is, she hasn’t realized that it’s a crappy way to live. Mainly because she hasn’t been shown how awful of a life it is, what awful people it’s made us. But I have. I have no excuse to act like that anymore, to act like her.

“As daughters of some of the most influential men and women in this state, we have certain responsibilities and . . . appearances to uphold. Or have you forgotten that as well?”

Is she really going to do this? Could I ever have called someone like this a friend?

It horrifies me to think that things were even worse than I’d suspected.

“I could never disgrace my family,” she adds scathingly.

I can’t decide if she’s insinuating that arriving with this Nash, as Cash, is disgracing my family or if it’s just my oversensitivity. Am I making more of the undertones than what she’s intending? I’ve known Millicent most of my adult life. I can’t imagine her being this person. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe my guilty conscience is making me see things that aren’t really there.

But then another part of me speaks up, asking if I am, in fact, being incredibly disrespectful and inconsiderate of my family by showing up like this with “Cash.” I knew Daddy wanted me to bring Nash, but I also knew he would undoubtedly rather I come alone than with someone whose . . . questionable nature might bring him shame.

It’s ridiculous that it would even be a consideration, but it’s just part of the world in which we live. Isn’t it?

My heart pumps with guilt, but over what? Daddy? Nash? That I’m actually having to think about what’s right here?

But then something else kicks in. Something foreign. And scary. But something welcome. And right.

I give Millicent my sweetest smile. “Well, I hardly think disgracing people who don’t even have the common decency to be polite is something I’ll lose sleep over.” Her mouth drops open in shock. Before she can recover enough to reply, I lean in and whisper, “Be careful that you don’t fall off that pedestal, Millicent. A tumble like that could break bones.”

I straighten, shoot her another syrupy smile, and then promptly turn my back on her.

My brief moment of triumph over my former self is quickly dashed when my eyes collide with my father’s. He’s standing on the other side of the room, watching me, quiet fury on his face.

Impulsively, I raise my chin, a statement in and of itself. And Daddy will know exactly what it means.

Slowly, he shakes his head. One sharp gesture that speaks as loudly as mine did. And I feel it like tremors of an earthquake all the way down to my soul.

For a few terrifying seconds, I feel like crumbling. Crumbling under the pressure of who I was, of what’s expected of me and what I’ve done tonight. But before I can, Nash steps in to save me from myself.

Fingers touch my elbow.

“How ’bout a drink to wash down all that bitterness?” he asks.

I have to make an effort to swallow my huge sigh of relief. When I look up at him to accept his kind offer, I see the faint light of respect in his eyes. Or do I? Could it be that I’m imagining it? Maybe because I want so badly to see it? I can’t be sure. Either way, it feels good. It feels good to finally have the respect, no matter how minute, of someone who thought so little of me. Of someone who knew what kind of person I was.

Was.

Maybe that’s why he’s saving me. Because that’s what he’s doing by offering me this escape route. He’s saving me. Even though it seems he’s not the saving type, he stepped up to do it. Twice now.

The first, of course, was when he showed up with Cash to rescue me. I can still remember hearing his voice, so distinguishable from Cash’s. So stern yet so safe. Familiar, but not in the way I would’ve expected. I felt protected all the way home, even though he hardly spoke. And now, here he is doing it again, tonight.

But why? Why now?

The answer comes as quickly as the question.

Maybe it’s because now he thinks I’m worth saving.

Pushing the troubling thoughts aside, I opt for a bright smile. “Thank you. I’d love one.”

As he leads me away, I glance back over my shoulder to see Millicent flounce off to rejoin her fiancé, Richardson “Rick” Pyle, whom she’d left behind when she spotted me. I’m sure she’ll give him an earful as soon as it’s acceptable to do so. It won’t be long before, one by one, everyone I know is given a perverted version of what just happened. And guess who the bad guy will be? Nash’s voice penetrates the chaos in my mind. “Not the cakewalk you thought it’d be, huh?” he asks quietly. I glance up at him again. He’s facing forward, but I imagine his expression is one of smugness. It’s upsetting when I realize that, despite what just happened, Nash doubts that I’m strong enough to change. That I have changed.

The realization is a devastating blow to my fragile confidence. I say nothing to him because, on some level, I’m wondering the same thing. Can I really change? Should it be this much of a struggle? Or am I just as irrevocably damaged as these people?

We stop in front of the elegantly appointed bar. Without asking what I’d like, Nash orders—a vodka martini, dirty, for me and a Heineken for him. I wait until the bartender is busy fixing my drink before I say anything.