SWNOVELS The Enforcer: Chapter 11
has framed these scenarios as my only choices. Typical.
Scowling at him, I shift my tote on my shoulder and try to ignore the fact that I’m more tilted than the Leaning Tower of Pisa under its weight. “Why do you think you can order me around?”
“If you don’t choose, I will.” Nash folds his muscular arms, biceps flexing as he leans against the charcoal gray doorframe. His oversized form fills a stunning amount of the doorway, eclipsing a good portion of the light streaming in from the hall.
The most paradoxical mixture of emotion swells within me. Irritation, mingled with something else that I can barely admit, even to myself. Excitement. While his protective act might be a little old-fashioned, it’s proof he still cares, and the circle of people he cares about is minuscule.
When I don’t respond, he adds, “Fine. Fourth option: I can follow you if you’re going to be stubborn about it.”
“Wouldn’t that make you one of the creeps you’re warning me about?”
“I’m a lot less scary than the ones running loose out there.” He jerks his thumb behind him.
“Others would disagree.” Most people would jump out of their skin if someone like Nash was following them at night. He casts a pretty terrifying shadow.
“Less scary when it comes to you, anyway.” Another pause follows. He cocks a brow, voice dropping until it’s nearly a growl. “Don’t make me carry your ass to my car.”
I wouldn’t put it past him to do that.
Sighing, I motion for him to move out of my way. “Fine. Let’s go to the train station.”
Instead of clearing a path, Nash reaches for me, and my breath hitches. For a split second, I’m not sure what he’s about to do. Wordlessly, he lifts my bag and slides it off my shoulder. His fingers brush against mine, sending a tingle of electricity shooting up my arm. It travels all the way to my chest and into my stomach, moving lower still.
When he slips it onto his good shoulder, an invisible fist tightens around my throat at the thoughtfulness of his gesture. Bittersweet—kind of like him.
Spending time with Nash is like putting my heart up for target practice.
Pulling the door to the training room shut behind me, I lock it and double-check the handle before we head down the deserted, half-lit hall. It’s silent aside from our echoing footsteps and the faint hum of a vacuum running somewhere in another part of the building.
When we reach the main doors to the facility, Nash holds the door open for me before following me outside. Cool evening air greets me, laced with a subtle chill that tells you fall is well underway. I go to make a left, but Nash grabs my arm and steers me in the opposite direction. “No. This way.”
I come to a halt and plant my feet, resisting his pull. “What are you talking about? I catch the train nearly every day.” Claire and Julianna let me hitch a ride with them whenever possible, but our schedules don’t always align.
“Don’t know what to tell you, but this way is faster.” He releases me and gestures for me to get going. I don’t even bother to argue because I’d have better luck arguing with a hockey stick. Even sticks bend, which is more than I can say for Nash.
Moments later, we pass behind the performing arts building, which is the halfway mark to the transit station. As luck would have it, his way actually is faster, and I’m sure he’ll make a point to remind me of that. Often.
As we navigate the darkened campus beneath overhead streetlamps and the faint glow from lit-up buildings, the cordiality between us starts to fade. Threads of tension weave, pulling tighter and tighter until I feel like I’m suffocating. While Nash seems comfortable with our lack of conversation, it drives me a little crazier with each unspoken step, especially because I still don’t know what he wants.
“I thought you said we couldn’t be friends,” I blurt, stepping off the curb to cross a utility road.
His gaze slides over to me. “We can’t.”
“Then why do you care what happens to me?”
We slow to a stop under a yellow-tinted streetlamp. It casts half of his face in shadows, making him even more difficult to read than usual.
“Same reason I can’t be your friend.”
I stare at him for a few heartbeats while the implications of what he said hang in the air. I don’t know how to respond, so I resume walking.
In my peripheral vision, a glimmer of playfulness shines through his solemn exterior. “Besides, if something happens to you, who else is going to maim me on the training table? I suspect Preston and Julianna don’t pack the same punch.”
“I didn’t maim you,” I tell Nash. “It’s not my fault you’re battered and bruised. You should book a sports massage. It’ll help with some of the tension you’re holding in your neck and shoulders.”
“Not a big fan. I’d rather have you rub me down.”
I elbow him in the ribs, though his innuendo is a sign he’s defrosting to me, however marginally. “Are you like this with all your trainers?”
He smirks, but it quickly fades. “No. In all seriousness, though—and I’m not trying to be a dick this time—why are you working with the team?” Unlike the last time he asked this, he sounds more curious than confrontational.
“Like I told you, it wasn’t my choice. Placements were supposed to be determined according to a ranked-choice system. My top picks were the women’s hockey team or one of the basketball teams. Unfortunately for me, you guys are such special snowflakes that you require the top students, and my choices were disregarded.”
“You’re one of the top students in your program?”
Despite his neutral tone, I bristle at the question. “Is that hard to believe?”
“Of course not, Vi. You’ve always been crazy smart.”
Nash holds the train station door open for me and we enter the musty stairwell, greeted by the faint odor of stale urine and rotting food. The stench intensifies as we scale two flights of stain-covered concrete stairs. On the second-floor landing, a scruffy man is slouched against the wall beside the doorway snoring loudly, surrounded by several empty cans. He seems harmless, but Nash doesn’t even need to say anything for me to know he disagrees. Strongly.
Without a word, he yanks open the door at the top, gesturing for me to go first. The slumbering man doesn’t stir. As I squeeze past Nash, our bodies brush, and I try to ignore the sparks of desire that shoot through my body. It’s just hormones. Biology. It doesn’t mean anything.
I step beneath the dingy spotlights that cast down from the ceiling, illuminating the graffiti-covered walls. A piercing wolf-whistle echoes behind me. I glance in the direction of the sound to find three guys standing a few feet away, leaning against a bank of ticket machines while smoking what smells like a joint.
“Wanna party, hot stuff?” one of them calls out. They all cackle obnoxiously, like this is the wittiest line anyone has ever thought of. Someone else utters something that I can’t quite discern, except to say that it’s definitely lewd.
Nash’s broad figure steps out of the shadows, and their laughter dies down, either because they know who he is or because he looks like he’s about to commit three homicides. Possibly both. He slowly turns to look down at me, unblinking, with an expression that says, “are you fucking kidding me?” I flash him a sheepish smile, and his right eye twitches almost imperceptibly, vein in his forehead throbbing, ready to explode.
It’s like the universe is conspiring to make this situation look as sketchy as possible.
I have a feeling this is the first of many chaperoned walks.
We approach the platform, and Nash scans our surroundings while we wait. He’s quiet; too quiet, like the calm before a storm. After another inspection of the premises, his jaw tightens, cords in his neck tensing.
“Nope,” he says. “Let’s go.” He begins walking, taking my backpack with him.
“What?” I hustle to catch up with him, which is no easy feat given that my legs are half the length of his. “Go where?”
“To my car, obviously.”
I want to blame the late hour or my fatigued state for why I don’t argue with him, but I can’t honestly say those are the only reasons.