Boy in the Club a boy & billionaire novel - Rachel Kane Page 0,11

know they have power over you, that they could buy and sell you.

There’s a whole other kind of confidence that says you just don’t care. That you’re so far above what’s going on, that you don’t have to show off. You don’t have to swagger and smirk and sneer.

That’s this guy. He simply doesn’t care about what’s going on around us.

He wants me.

He wants me, and it’s the first time in a while that anyone in this room has noticed me, and I don’t want to be noticed, I want to be invisible, and yet also…well, I want him to see me. I’m curious. I’m not allowed to be. That’s not what I’m here for.

It’s confusing. I’m confused.

He nods to the back and for a split second I almost nod back, just out of sheer curiosity. Just for the chance to get him back to a room and ask, why are you even here, when you don’t want to be?

I have to shake my head. It’s self-preservation. I can’t go down that road.

I’m not on offer. I’m an ugly. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jimi.

It’s a relief, really. When he was staring at me like that, when his eyes were fixed on mine, I felt myself blushing. Felt the embarrassment creeping in, but I think someone forgot to tell my cock how to react to embarrassment, because I could feel it, I was suddenly very aware of it, thankfully hidden by my stupid loincloth, but active nonetheless, as though someone had woken it up.

Go back to sleep, I tell it, carrying my tray back to the bar. He’s not for you. Or, rather, you’re not for him.

You’re not for anybody.

The thing about the room is, it’s dark, and with the strobing lights, it ruins your peripheral vision. You learn to be pretty careful carrying the drinks, so you don’t knock into someone’s elbow. It’s this slow sweep you do with your eyes, slightly side to side, just to make sure you’re not going to trip over something.

That’s how I realize he’s following me, when I scan to my left.

My heart is beating so fast.

3

Colby

This is foolish. I can’t chase him. This isn’t a playground and we aren’t kids. What am I supposed to do, tag him? Tackle him to the ground?

Scar shakes his head. There, I’ve got a little name for him. Scar.

He’s not on the market. At least that’s what I think he means. I can’t be sure, because the fucking rule of this club is that you can’t hear anything over the music, which, right now, seems like the stupidest thing on earth. Who doesn’t talk? Everybody talks. The whole planet is awash in nonstop chatter.

You’d think I’d be relieved not to have to hear words, words, words, the noise so loud that it’s almost quiet, your eardrums too shaken to react—but no, the music is making it hard to think.

Or maybe the alcohol is. Not sure which.

I need to tell him to wait.

God, I’m an idiot.

“Wait.” Loud enough to be heard.

I can imagine literally every head in the room turns to look at me. Every man’s glittering eyes taking me in, and I can feel the scowls even if I can’t see them.

Of course I’m wrong. Nobody notices at all. Everyone’s in their own world.

Of course I’m wrong about that, too. Someone does notice.

Two men—security, I assume, since their suits are black, and they have been hanging near the walls all this time—approach me warily, not speaking, not getting close enough to touch. Just letting me know they’re there.

What are you going to do, taze me? Throw me in sex jail? I said a fucking word, that’s all.

Scar turned to look at me. The lights are dim, but even so I can see the way his skin looks, the way his throat reddens in a blushing patch leading down to his chest. I wonder, if I were to touch the scar, what it would feel like. Would it be smooth like silk, or smooth like plastic? I don’t have any scars, not even a skinned knee. I don’t know what it’s like.

The men in black are wordlessly communicating with him. It’s all in the eyes, I guess. His shoulders slump like he’s lost the argument.

He’s only an arm’s length away. I could reach him. I could, for instance, touch his hard little nipple with my fingertip. I could roll it under my thumb. Trace my forefinger over the scar, or be more bold, drop my hand,