Читать книгу London Falling - Chanel Cleeton - Страница 7

CHAPTER THREE

Maggie

I WISHED HE would stop looking at me.

Actually, I wished he would go home. Or never have come out with us at all. I still didn’t know how he’d managed it. One minute we were walking down the stairs, the next he was helping me into a cab, his hands grazing my bare shoulders.

I blamed Fleur. Besides being her cousin, he was also one of her closest friends, and she never did a good job of telling him no. Of course, a lot of girls seemed to have that problem where Samir was concerned—myself included.

I moved my hips to the music, tossing my head back. I wanted to lose myself in the beat, the freedom of it. For the first time in months, I felt like I belonged. I felt more like myself here in this nightclub in London than I ever had in a lifetime in South Carolina.

Summer had been awkward. My life back home was beginning to feel a lot like a shirt that was a size too small. I tried to make it work, tried to fit in. But there was a part of me that was always here, in London, wishing I could get back to the life I left behind. Wishing I could get back to the person I actually liked to be, versus the shell of me I’d been in my hometown.

I’d missed this, missed feeling like I was a part of life, rather than like it was just happening to me. I missed the possibilities.

This place was a prime example. Clubs like Air didn’t exist in my hometown, with its family restaurants and only a couple of stoplights.

Here, waitresses served canisters of oxygen and fancy cocktails. Thanks to Samir, we were in the club’s VIP section, girls dancing on the tables around us, people mixing magnums of champagne with oxygen. It was a crazy, surreal experience that felt like something out of a movie and yet somehow—thanks to my scholarship and, indirectly, my Harvard rejection—it had become my life.

I grabbed my glass of champagne, downing the remnants in one big gulp. The oxygen was supposed to be best when mixed with champagne or something—I couldn’t tell much of difference. But of course, the drink selection was the furthest thing from my mind. This time I stared back at him.

Samir lounged in his chair, whiskey and Coke in hand, his feet crossed at the ankles, propped up against the table. All he needed was a cigar to complete the portrait of satisfied male.

He’d dressed casually tonight, probably more out of haste than anything else. He wore a simple collared black dress shirt—a few buttons unbuttoned—and a pair of his signature Diesel jeans. The shoes propped up against the table looked like Gucci or something equally expensive.

The more I drank, the more I wanted to undress him, one article of clothing at a time.

Samir used to be the one temptation I couldn’t resist. And now that I’d had him, I wanted more.

I hadn’t been able to really look at him earlier, surrounded by everyone. I studied him now, until our gazes locked and his eyes widened slightly.

Shit.

I looked away, nerves pounding. I was playing with fire, dancing around the heat and the flames. But wasn’t that part of the excitement? Deep down, in places I didn’t want to admit to having, wasn’t that part of what I liked? The thrill of the chase—the ecstasy and agony of wondering if he still wanted me, if he lay awake at nights turned on, fantasizing about me, or if he woke from dreams that seemed more like memories—of naked flesh and heat and release.

I couldn’t resist—I glanced back over at him.

He sat at the table, nursing his drink, his eyes hooded. This time, he wasn’t looking at me.

Since we’d arrived, scores of girls had come over to the table, flirting with him, practically giving him a lap dance. He’d ignored every one. Apparently he was taking this girlfriend more seriously than I’d thought.

We’d all criticized him for being a player and yet, here he was, faithful to someone far away. A better person would have been happy for him. It just made me want to drink more.

I turned my body slightly, sneaking another peek at him. He stared back at me, unsmiling, his gaze unwavering. It was the staring equivalent of a game of chicken, one he would probably win.

A girl walked over to the table, a sultry grin on her face. What was this, number six for the night? If anything, Samir’s lack of interest seemed to spur them on. I had no doubt he’d become a competition to them—the prize they all wanted to win.

The girl leaned down, her long blond hair brushing against Samir as she whispered in his ear.

My stomach clenched. It was harder than I’d anticipated, watching him with someone else. I hated that I even wondered, but the thought flashed through my mind: Has he slept with her, too? I wasn’t prepared for the spark of hurt I felt—irrational as it was—at the sight of another girl so physically close to him. I held my breath, waiting for his reaction, wishing I didn’t care.

He waved her off, his gaze connecting with mine. Something that might have been embarrassment flickered in his eyes before it was replaced by the same smug expression I’d come to know as classically Samir.

I glared back at him.

The girl remained at his side, a pouty expression her face. I knew I’d regret what I was about to do, but I couldn’t resist. It—all of it—was just too much.

I moved in for the kill, closing the distance between us. “He has a girlfriend, you know. He’s devoted to her. So you might as well not waste your time.” I wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him feel small, the way he’d made me feel. It was petty of me, but I was pissed off and spoiling for a fight.

The girl turned to face me, but I barely spared her a glance. My words weren’t for her. This time I met his gaze dead-on. Challenging him.

Samir’s eyes darkened. He stood and brushed past the girl, his gaze locked on me. As difficult as it was, I held his stare. I was done being the girl who backed away from a fight.

He moved toward me, coming to stand before me, mere inches separating our bodies. He was just tall enough, and close enough, that I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. It was the closest we’d been since we’d slept together, and my body knew it. My skin felt overly warm, desire pooling, spreading throughout my limbs. My body had terrible judgment and all too often around him, my mind followed suit.

For a moment, neither one of us spoke.

Samir leaned into me, his chest brushing against mine. I struggled to keep myself from swaying forward, from sinking into him. His lips brushed against my ear and a tremor ran through me. I clenched my hands into little fists.

You can look, but you can’t touch.

“Come with me.”

I shook my head, taking a step away from him. I wanted to act like I didn’t care, like his presence didn’t affect me. But I couldn’t. Self-preservation became infinitely more important than my ego. I couldn’t be this close to him again. Not when it hurt too much, made me want too much, made me reckless.

“We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing left to say.”

“Isn’t there? Are you just going to avoid talking about it?”

“Funny you should mention wanting to discuss what happened, considering you didn’t talk to me all summer.”

“Maggie—”

“No. You don’t get to talk now. You sent me texts. One that actually made me think you didn’t regret what happened between us. And then that cryptic text in July. ‘Are you okay?’ That’s what you had to text me?” My voice rose with each word.

“I was worried about you. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Really? Really? You were worried about me?” I laughed bitterly. “Was that in between the time you spent with your girlfriend?”

I didn’t know who I was angrier at, him or myself. Sure, he’d cheated on his girlfriend, but I’d been right there with him. I was the one who had been stupid enough to believe our night actually might have meant something. I was the one who had spent all summer obsessing about him, imagining seeing him again, preparing for it. More than anything, I was angry that I’d let my guard down with him for even a moment. It was my own stupidity that had gotten me into this mess in the first place. I wasn’t making that mistake again.

I turned away. Samir reached out, grabbing at my hand, pulling me back toward him.

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped.

“Do you want to do this now? In front of everyone? Come with me.” He tugged on my hand, curving his fingers on my wrist. They lingered for a moment, just over my pulse, stroking there.

“No.”

“I need to explain.” His voice was raw. “Please.”

“Don’t do this to me,” I whispered, forgetting I was supposed to be putting on a brave face. He had no idea how he affected me, what this whole summer had been like for me. He had no idea what the mere touch of his hand did to my body. Or about the hope I had to beat back, in order to keep from having my heart crushed again.

I couldn’t take a chance on him, couldn’t risk the near certainty of what it would feel like to have my heart broken by him. Because now that I’d had him—even just for one night—I knew he wasn’t someone I would be able to walk away from whole.

Samir

I WAS SCREWING this up so badly it wasn’t even funny.

I’d never been here before, never had to plead with a girl. Clearly it showed.

“Just give me a few minutes. Just a few minutes alone, and then you don’t have to talk to me again.” I swallowed. “Please.”

For a moment she didn’t answer me—it felt like an eternity. I’d blown it, I got that. But she had to forgive me. Maybe I didn’t deserve it, but I needed her forgiveness. I needed her, however I could get her.

Finally she nodded. “Okay.”

I clung to that word like a lifeline.

I reached down between us, grabbing her hand. She flinched against me, but didn’t move away. We stood there for a moment, frozen. It felt strange holding her hand again after all this time. Strange, yet right.

I led her through the club, my hand pulling her along like a magnet. The crowd was thick tonight, especially for a Sunday, but I elbowed my way through.

I stopped in front of the girls’ bathroom, hesitating for a moment. Then I pushed open the door.

Behind me, Maggie protested, but I ignored her. The words had been inside of me, pushing to get out, for months now. I needed this chance to explain. Hurting her was inevitable, always had been. Hadn’t I known, even the morning after, that I couldn’t keep her?

It didn’t matter how much I wanted to.

The startled bathroom attendant gaped at us—specifically, me. “You can’t be in here.”

Despite her protests, I doubted this was the first time something like this had happened here.

Two girls washed their hands in the sink, their faces avid with interest, but besides them, the bathroom was empty. I pulled out my wallet, peeling off some cash and handing it to the attendant.

“Can you give us five minutes? Please.”

She hesitated for a moment before glancing down at the money, and then back at me. Her gaze drifted behind me, focusing on Maggie.

“Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Maggie answered, her voice unusually quiet.

Something tumbled in my gut.

The woman looked back at me before nodding. “Fine. Five minutes.” She ushered the other two girls out, leaving Maggie and me alone.

Five minutes. It was a safe amount of time. Short enough to ensure I kept my hands where they belonged—off of her. Long enough for me to explain why things were the way they were.

But the second the room emptied, my words dried up. I was finally alone with her, and I didn’t have a thought in my head. Not in English, at least. French, Arabic—those words filled my head, desperate and pleading. But as hard as I tried to formulate what I wanted to say, my tongue felt thick and useless.

“You wanted your chance. You got it. Talk.” Maggie’s voice trembled slightly. “You have five minutes, and then I’m gone.”

That was the part that scared me the most. I didn’t want her to leave, but I wasn’t capable of giving her enough to make her stay.

Story of my life. Always close, but never quite good enough. Definitely not good enough for her.

It made sense to start with the most important thing I had to say.

“I fucked up. I’m sorry.”