Bad Boy Blues

In all my years of waiting tables, I’ve never dropped a tray. My old boss used to call me a natural.

So what the fuck just happened?

All of a sudden, my thoughts shut down when I feel someone take my hand in theirs.

It’s big, the hand. Dusky. So dusky and bronzed that my skin looks even paler.

Maybe it’s the shock but I’m kind of entranced by the look of my small hand trapped in a large one. The blood on my skin is brilliant red but compared to the bronze fingers that are curled around me, everything looks dull.

“You’re gonna need bandages.”

The voice. His voice. It’s soft and low.

It’s exactly as I remember it but with a rougher edge. An edge that wasn’t there before. His voice is probably the only voice that I can recognize out of a thousand voices, even from far away, even after years.

God, it’s awful. It’s fucking terrible.

Why do I know so much about him?

Why is he touching me? He’s never touched me before.

With suspended breaths, I look up at him, ready to tell him to get away from me and snatch my hand back. But all I can focus on is that his hands are not the only things that are bronzed.

For some reason, I hadn’t noticed it before. But his face has become darker as well. Tanned.

“Don’t,” I say, somehow finding my voice.

With his face still dipped, he lifts his eyes up to me. He studies me for a beat and I squirm under his intense scrutiny.

“Don’t what?”

I swallow against the impact of his voice. It hits me in the chest and I wince slightly.

Of course, he notices.

And maybe to mess with me even more, he rubs his thumb over the pad of my palm. The touch is gentle, not more than a whisper of his skin over mine.

But it’s the only thing that I can focus on.

I snatch my hand back and fist it. “Don’t touch me.” Then I add, to make it super clear, “Ever.”

He’s darker now.

That’s all I can think about. In combination with his rougher voice and his bigger body, his tanned skin makes him look ruthless.

More ruthless than before.

More ruthless than what he used to look like, standing in front of his locker, or at the school gates, or sitting at the largest and loudest table at the cafeteria. Or riding his bike down the highway.

I’m not sure I like that. Actually, I’m pretty sure that I don’t like it. As if he wasn’t intimidating enough. As if my palms didn’t itch enough to slap the arrogant look off his face.

Damn it.

Why did he come back?

Everything was fine. Everything was normal. I’d gotten used to not hiding or looking over my shoulder and being mellow all the time and not plotting mayhem and murder. I’d gotten used to my curvy body and how my thighs jiggle when I walk.

The only reason I took this job was because I thought he wasn’t coming back.

I know people said that he went to go to Oxford University like every other Prince in their family. But I never believed it.

Zach hated school. He was so much of a rulebreaker and a rebel that it’s laughable to even think that he’d walk in his ancestors’ footsteps.

Not to mention the way he left. So abruptly. Kind of like in the dead of night. He didn’t even graduate high school.

I knew that when he left, he didn’t go to Oxford and he wasn’t planning on coming back.

But I guess I was wrong about one of those things.

He is back.

After the dramatic fiasco in the ballroom, a couple of staff members escorted me out. Tina helped me clean up the wound and told me to take it easy. I’d been rattled all day and something was bound to happen. I don’t think Mrs. S would be as forgiving, though.

But I can’t think of that right now. I can’t think of what tomorrow will bring now that Zach knows I’m here, at The Pleiades.

They put me on kitchen duty after I so thoroughly embarrassed myself. It’s hot and sticky in there – I don’t know how Maggie does it – and I need a little break.

So I step outside through the service entrance and try to just breathe.

The night air isn’t much better and my uniform for the event, white blouse and tight black skirt, clings to my sweaty body but I don’t care. Anything is better than being cooped up in that kitchen.

I toe off my two-inch-heeled Mary Janes and unravel my braid, followed by the top two buttons of my blouse. I fan the fabric, trying to get some air going, and lean against the wall, closing my eyes.

“Are you okay?”

The rumbly voice makes me jump.

“Jesus. Fuck,” I almost shriek.

At first, I don’t see anything other than the dark outline of bushes and trees in the distance. But then I notice a cloud of smoke and whip myself in the direction it’s coming from.