Never His Girl: Dark High School Bully Romance (Kings of Cypress Pointe Book 2)
Never His Girl: Chapter 15

BLUE

I don’t miss the relief that sweeps over him when I give in a little, but he doesn’t speak.

He’s so mild tonight, lacking the abrasiveness and sharp edges I’ve become accustomed to. It makes him hard to read, because this isn’t the side of him I know. I’m reminded of what Joss said on the bus as we traveled to regionals, though. She described him in a softer light. One where he’s a loyal friend, a good person.

He steps into the room and I’m immediately on guard, scanning him with my eyes, like I expect him to draw a weapon of some sort. Only, that’s not what I fear when it comes to West. I’m quite familiar with his typical arsenal, and it consists of venomous words and public humiliation.

The door latches and I wince a little, staring as he sets the last vase on the carpet beside him. Right away, I wish I’d thought to turn on more lights before letting him in. Instead, we’re bathed in a soft, flickering glow—far too romantic a setting for what I anticipate to be a heated discussion.

He stands there, silent, raising his brow.

“Well?” he asks. “You said there were conditions.”

My gaze shifts toward the closet and I move that way, slipping a second robe off its hanger. When I hand it over, he smirks, visibly confused.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Security,” I answer. “Strip and put your clothes and phone in the closet. I’m not taking any chances you’ll record this conversation.”

At first, he chuffs a short laugh. Then, he realizes I’m dead-ass serious and shakes his head.

“Wow,” he mutters to himself. But then, the next second, he complies.

While I expected him to step into the bathroom to undress, he surprises me by pulling his shirt off in one smooth motion, mussing his hair in the process. A breath hitches in my throat at the sight of taut skin I can still feel against my palms. Against… all of me.

He moves on to his belt and the sound of the metal buckle clanking is the only sound in the room for a moment. Then, his zipper lowers. My jaw ticks with tension as he drops his jeans and boxers at the same time, and even steps out of his socks before kicking it all inside the closet.

And there he stands, naked in all his otherworldly perfection, not a shy bone in his body. It’s unavoidable when my eyes lower, past the toned ridges of muscle at his waist and hips. They land on the gloriously thick masterpiece hanging between his solid thighs as he stands there so relaxed, casual. Two words come to mind and I blame them on the Vodka.

Fucking magnificent.

I force my eyes to snap to his as he takes the robe I’ve just shoved toward his chest. Of course, he takes his time slipping into it, only to barely tie the thing around his waist. In true West-fashion, he doesn’t give a shit.

“Happy?” he asks, shooting me a look.

I answer with nothing more than a nod, then do my best to ignore how the temp in the suite just rose a good fifty degrees. Not even kidding. Or maybe it’s just my temperature that’s spiked.

I motion for him to sit in the armchair, across from where I’ve just lowered onto the bed. Hopefully, he makes this quick, puts his clothes back on and leaves.

I’m tipsier than I should be in his presence. My defenses are definitely down, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“You wanted to talk. So, talk,” I say, happy that at least my tone doesn’t give away my weakness for him.

Comfortable, West plants his feet and slouches a bit into the deep seat. I’m pretty sure I have a clear view of his junk, but don’t dare glance down.

Nope.

Not doing it.

“I heard about Scar,” he says first, making it easier to focus on reality. “I know how important she is to you, and I’m sorry that what happened between us made things harder for her.”

There’s sincerity in his voice that I don’t expect, and it’s difficult to process. Then again, he’s a master manipulator, and this could all be part of the act.

“I already told you, don’t mention my sister,” I snap, which draws a frustrated sigh out of him.

“I’m just trying to own the shit I’ve done, Southside. What happened to her is on me,” he admits. “Even if…”

My brow quirks when it sounds like he’s about to say more, but his words cut off there, leaving me hanging by a thread.

It makes me scoff at myself, remembering who I’m dealing with. “You say so much, but at the same time, you say nothing at all, West. I’m sick of the riddles.”

He blows out a breath and the tension in his jaw tells of his frustration. Is it because I challenge him? Because I don’t let him get by with these weak apologies and thin explanations that seem to work on everyone else? I’m done letting him hold the reins. He’s not my leader, and I sure as shit am not one of his pathetic followers.

“You told me to leave less than five minutes after we fucked. Who the hell are you gonna blame that on?” I blurt out, surprising myself with the bold question.

It’s humiliating enough to think it, but speaking it takes the embarrassment to a whole new level.

Suddenly uncomfortable with what I just put out into the atmosphere, I clutch the lapel of my robe and pull it closed, crossing my legs right after.

“That…”

He stops there, pinching the bridge of his nose when he leans forward, resting both elbows on his knees.

“I can’t fucking do this,” he goes on, grumbling to himself while I just sit, listening. “That was me being a dick,” he eventually admits. “I… felt something. And it scared the shit out of me.”

“You felt something,” I repeat flatly. “You’d have to have a heart to feel something. So, forgive me if I call bullshit on that one.”

He lets out another of those labored breaths, and he’s starting to turn red. Only, I’m certain it isn’t from embarrassment, but rather anger.

“Fuck!” he growls, loudly enough that I’m certain whoever’s at either side of this suite just heard him.

My posture goes rigid, thinking he’s about to either freak out or start yelling. I’m now about two seconds from putting him out of here.

“With other girls, it’s always the same. With all of them,” he clarifies. “It’s… it’s fun while it lasts, then it’s over as soon as we leave the bed, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t like that with you,” he stammers, having a hard time getting his thoughts together.

Those heartbreaker greens of his flash toward me, and I feel so much in his stare.

“You lingered,” he says. “We fucked, it ended, and I expected the shit that came with it to just… fade, but…”

My gaze rises when he stands to pace, seeming to search for the right words.

“I expected to have this big epiphany when it was over, this sudden realization that everything I thought I felt wasn’t real, but it wasn’t like that.”

He pauses, and it feels like my heart’s trying to leap out of my chest as I listen.

“Being with you made it even clearer that, somewhere between me trying to hate you and you trying to hate me, something changed,” he admits. “And I hated myself for—”

“Hated yourself for what?” I ask, hearing the air of desperation I meant to keep to myself.

His feet aren’t moving now, and I have his eyes again. They’re boring a hole through me and I swear I feel him struggling to hold all this inside. Struggling against whatever has him spilling his soul right in front of me tonight.

“I hated myself because… I fucking fell for you, Southside.”

My throat tightens, hearing what he’s just admitted. But I’m not melting at his feet like some might. Instead, I’m madder than when he first began to speak because nothing makes sense. Realizing there’s more between us than bitter rivalry shouldn’t have triggered such an ugly response from him. It just shouldn’t have.

“So, instead of telling me how you felt, you decided to destroy me instead? Kicking me out, posting that video of us?”

He’s shaking his head before I can even finish, and he’s pacing again. He looks tortured, like a man warring with two voices inside his head. One telling him to continue being who he’s always been. Another telling him he’s reached a fork in the road and must decide right here, right now, who he’ll be moving forward.

“What I said afterward—telling you to leave—that was me being an ass,” he growls, like he expects me to already know this. Like it’s an excuse.

“No argument there,” I snap back, feeling my face grow hotter. “And the video? Was that just you being an ass, too?”

“The video was… It was…”

“It was what, West?”

I’m raging now, on my feet and then standing in his face, blocking his path. He’s not allowed to avoid this. He’s not allowed to avoid me.

I see that, more than anything, he wants me to let this go, wants me to stop pushing, but there’s no chance of that happening.

“It was what, West?” I ask again, clearly sick of his bullshit.

He stares down on me with the candles’ glow looking like actual hellfire in his eyes. His jaw is tight and he’s madder than the devil, but I’m not letting him slip past me again. He’s all out of passes and I’m all out of patience.

“If you don’t want to talk, then we’re done here,” I assert, already heading toward the closet to get his shit and put him out, sooner rather than later. But as soon as I reach the double doors—

“It was Parker.”

Hearing that, it feels like every ounce of air has suddenly left the room, and when I turn, West takes a few steps back and drops down into the chair again. He can’t seem to look at me, but meanwhile, I can’t take my eyes off him. Not even when he lowers his face into his hands, like his world just ended with this admission.

“Shit.”

That word leaves his mouth in a whisper and, afterward, we’re both silent.