No fucking way.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Caspian
“Did you know this was where we were heading?” Rowan asks, almost on a whisper, like someone is going to pop out and catch us at any minute.
Turning off the engine, I climb out of the golf cart. He does the same.
“Not a fucking clue,” I mumble, glancing around at our surroundings. Not that I can see shit. Aside from the lights on the building, there’s nothing else lit up.
The building itself, though, looks just like ours. The only difference is it’s completely secluded, whereas ours is surrounded by two other resident buildings and the main one. It’s slightly bigger too. If I had to guess, I’d say there’s a restaurant inside, at the very least. Possibly a gym.
Walking up to the door, I reach into my pocket and pull out the wristband, holding it up to the pad. Nothing happens.
Rowan scoffs behind me, the sound morphing into a laugh. “We’re not employees, idiot. Why would our wristbands work?”
Rolling my eyes, not bothering to look back at him, I spit out a quick, “Fuck you.” He’s in a mood today. I could tell from the minute I opened my door, and he was standing on the other side. I don’t know what’s up his ass, but I’m normally the grump out of the two of us. This is… different. Weird. But also, intriguing.
This fucking building is huge. Making our way around, we find two side doors—both locked. By the time we make it to the back, I’m convinced we’ll never get inside, and this joyride will have been for nothing.
But color me fucking surprised when he reaches for the knob, finding it propped open.
When he glances at me, a wide smirk plays on his lips, his dark green eyes glinting, the wrinkles surrounding them more prominent. Gesturing for me to follow him, he heads down the quiet, dimly lit hallway all stealth-like, as if we’re in some Bond movie. It’s… a little cute. I guess.
The way he maneuvers down the hall, turning here or there, it would seem like he knows exactly where he’s going, like he’s been here before, but I know that’s not the case. His shock was evident when we parked the cart and he saw the sign on the building. I keep my eyes peeled, expecting to see an employee come flying around the corner at any minute, catching us, but so far, it’s a dead zone here. It’s only like,maybe, seven or eight, so they can’t all be in bed. That’s absurd.
We keep walking, the hallway eventually ending, opening up to a sort of dining area. The lights are off, the chairs set upside down on the tables. It looks like an unused space. Spotting a sofa underneath the window to the far right, I cross the room and take a seat. It’s a deep red leather. Probably real, too, with the cost of this place.
A moment later, he plops down beside me, holding his knees to his chest. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his cigarette pack, taking out what I automatically know is a joint, along with his Zippo.
“Now we’re talking,” I mutter, reaching up to prop the window open.
The room’s dark, so when he flicks the lighter, bringing the flame to the end of the joint, his entire face is illuminated. Every sharp line accentuated for a single moment while he lights up. The way his plush lips pucker around the weed, and the way his cheeks hollow as he inhales.
He’s a fucking beautiful man. I have no shame in admitting that.
Those same lips looked incredible stretched over my cock as he choked on it the other day. Now,thatscene has spent an awful lot of time replaying in my head since it happened. Not that I’d ever tell him.
He hands me the joint after taking a few puffs. Placing it between my lips, I inhale and hold it for a moment. We pass it back and forth a few times in silence, until I surprise even myself by asking, “So, what landed you here?”
Rowan’s eyes widen fractionally, and I can tell it surprised him too. I’m not exactly one for small talk, and I’m sure he’s well aware of that by now.
He takes another drag before answering. “Too much partying,” he states, reminding me that he’s already partially told me this before. “Parents thought it would end up looking bad on them and their reputation. So, this was their way of managing the situation.”
I nod like I understand. I don’t—dead and missing parents and all that. “What’s your drug of choice?” I ask, not entirely sure why I want to know.
He shrugs. “I don’t really have one, to be honest. I’ll take shit at parties—coke, molly, shrooms, acid—but it’s never something I do alone, or outside of a party setting.”
I glance over at him, brows knit together. “I’m so fucking sure.” Every single addict says the same shit.
He chuckles, handing me the joint that’s nearly gone at this point. “I’m serious. I don’t think I have an addictive personality.”Something else all fucking addicts say.“I’ve never felt the itch to do it more than that. To me, it enhances the fun, but it’s never been anything Ineed, per se.”
“Do they know this?” I ask, still not totally believing him.
His dark, thick brows draw inward. “My parents?”
I nod.
