Chapter 128: Kidnapping Damien Lockwood
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"Privately."
The word came out slightly slurred, but I ignored it. Damien blinked once, then glanced at the girl on his lap, signaling their chat was over. "If you’ll excuse me."
She slid off without much fuss, although she did look disappointed. Points for her panache. But then someone had to complicate things.
A guy lounging nearby let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He exuded that expensive vibe, the watch, the posture, that particular brand of arrogant ease that wealth seemed to provide.
He looked at me like I was some dirt that had smeared across a clean floor.
"And the hell who are you, exactly?" He folded his arms, leaning back as if his presence mattered simply because he existed. "Why do you think you can just stroll over here and command Damien’s attention like that?"
Sometimes...and I mean sometimes, I was a pretty reasonable person, I would’ve rolled my eyes and walked away.
Rich kids looking down on scholarship students was nothing new. It was practically a rite of passage. Not worth the effort or the headache, and I’d learned to deal with it in a way I didn’t end up breaking noses with my fist.
But tonight? Yeah...tonight wasn’t normal.
I was already pissed off to an unhealthy degree.
My emotional balance had been compromised by a cocktail of alcohol, jealousy, and about ten weeks-worth of feelings that I hadn’t dealt with.
I turned to face him slowly.
"My name," I enunciated carefully, "is None of Your Damn Business."
He blinked. "...What?"
"You heard me the first time, shit-head. None. Of your damn. Business."
I took a step closer, even though that was probably a bad idea.
Someone behind him nearly laughed, and another voice murmured something I couldn’t quite catch, low and not entirely unkind. Then,
"...That’s the Barista Boy."
"Oh." Recognition flickered across his face...not the warm kind. "The scholarship kid."
My jaw tightened. "Got a problem with that?"
He stood up with the slow deliberation of someone who thought standing was an event worth announcing. "I’ve got a problem with people forgetting where they belong."
Fuck...why the heck did Damien even keep these shitty ass friends anyways?
They’re making me look like a saint at this point.
Around us, the party’s noise faded as conversations stumbled, like everyone suddenly wanted to see what was about to happen. A drink was lowered, and whispers spread through the group, a quiet buzz of an audience.
I wasn’t thinking straight. I knew I wasn’t. The alcohol had cranked my usual self-control up to eleven, and all those complicated emotions I’d been juggling turned into something simple...I didn’t want to back down.
I took another step forward.
He mirrored me.
We held eye contact in this standoff that felt like it was on the verge of boiling over, a scene that would definitely be the topic of conversation by morning.
Then a hand landed on the guy’s chest.
Not hard or showy, just a flat palm, enough to push him back into his chair as if it took no effort at all.
The group fell silent.
Damien didn’t look back at the guy, didn’t wait for any reaction. He just stood there with his hands relaxed at his sides, like he’d made his point and that was that.
"Sit down."
Just two words, but they carried a weight that made you understand right away that volume wasn’t necessary.
I’d never heard Damien sound like that before, not during arguments, not in our tense early days where I made it my sole life purpose to piss him off, not in moments that tested us both.
Every trace of warmth was gone from his voice, replaced by something cold and utterly certain...the kind of voice that didn’t need to be raised because it never had to be.
The guy opened his mouth.
Damien glanced at him.
Just looked, whatever was in that gaze shifted the color in the guy’s face, and all the bravado fizzled out before he could act on it.
After a brief moment of eye contact, he muttered, "...Sorry."
The word came out small, immediate.
A shiver crept up my spine as I gaped at him.
I’d seen Damien composed, patient, competitive, teasing, warm, and attentive. But this? This was something else...a cold, absolute, unconcerned authority that commanded attention effortlessly.
Nobody said anything.
Nobody moved.
The hush had a certain quality...respectful, maybe, or perhaps something closer to cautious. Either way, no one seemed game to test whether that look had a follow-up.
Then Damien turned back to me.
The coldness vanished, immediately, as if someone had flipped a switch, replaced by that familiar warm, amused look I’d gotten used to seeing.
I frowned, completely confused. Wasn’t he just...?
"There you are," he said, like I’d just wandered off and he’d been waiting for me.
I blinked at him. "Did you just—" I gestured vaguely at the scene he’d created and then walked away from. "You were...and then you just—how are you already—?"
"Shall we?" He extended his hand.
"You’re possessed," I slurred. "That’s the only explanation."
His fingers wrapped around mine before I could think of letting him go, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in that absentminded way he had sometimes, like it was just what his hands naturally did.
"So," he said softly, "let’s talk."
"Wipe that smile off your face," I shot back.
His grin widened. He was getting a kick out of this, genuinely enjoying my discomfort, which was so consistent with our history over the past few months that it should have been comforting but instead felt infuriating.
I really was mad at him this time, why the heck was he delighted?!
Without giving it much thought, I yanked him forward.
He went along without hesitation, which surprised me...I expected at least a bit of resistance, maybe a quip about who was leading whom. Instead, he simply followed, which was almost unsettling.
I caught snippets of the group we were leaving behind.
"Did he just...did Damien actually leave?"
"Who even is that?"
"I’ve never seen him just walk away like that."
"They’re holding hands."
"The other guy grabbed him."
"...Still, though."
I dismissed it all, focused on pulling Damien through the crowd toward the staircase at the back of the frat house.
"Oliver."
I kept moving.
"Oliver."
Still walking.
"You’re moving pretty aggressively. Are you angry at me?"
"I’m not angry."
"What would angry look like?"
"Faster."
His quiet laugh trailed after me as we navigated through the party. "Is this kidnapping?"
"Maybe."