If anyone was good at fleeing the confines of her father’s hold, it was Chloe. I flipped up the collar of my leather jacket. “I didn’t ask you to fight my battles for me.”
Chloe had shown up at a recent frat party. She’d scowled when she saw a girl sitting on my lap. Before the girl had had a chance to move, Chloe had her hands in the girl’s hair, pulling her off me. Needless to say, we got into an argument even though we weren’t dating, and her dense bodyguard had come in and tried to manhandle me. I was about to punch his lights out when Chloe maneuvered her curvy body in between Scar Face and me. My fists shook so hard with the need to hit the fucker. Not only for trying to rough me up but because the jerk had held a gun to my head once, and in the three years since the incident, I hadn’t had a chance to show him my gratitude for him almost shooting me.
“Regardless, you owe me.” Chloe touched her nose with the back of her gloved hand.
She wasn’t going to let this go, and I was about to become an ice sculpture. “If I take you to this artsy crap, then we’re done. No more trying to trap me into your love web. I’m not that guy. I’ve told you that.”
“Fine.” She smiled as though she didn’t believe me.
She knew I didn’t pass up sex. I stalked closer to her, my breath steaming as I exhaled. “I’m dead serious. You will not come between me and any of my dates. We will not sneak off and have sex.” Like we had the day after we’d broken up. I was a moron for leading her to believe I wasn’t serious about our breakup. Since then I’ve kept my distance. “And we sure as hell aren’t getting married.” There, I said it. Not in this fucking lifetime and not with a mafia princess.
Her smile vanished as snot slid out of her nose. “I said fine. Besides, Mr. Brewer will be there, and I’m sure he would want you to see some of his students’ artwork.”
I sucked in my bottom lip, the ice beads melting on my tongue. “We’re through after tonight.” I hesitated for a moment, drilling my gaze into her, then headed toward the building.
“Eight p.m. Malia’s Art Gallery on Newbury Street. It’s black tie. So wear your tux.”
Fucking penguin suit. I hated it. I had one tailored for me last year when I attended a few of her father’s charity events. He was always donating money to some cause. For a mob guy, Pitt wasn’t a bad dude. He was fiercely protective of family, a good businessman, and in the three years I’d known him, I still didn’t know what he did for the mob. I wasn’t about to pry either. The last thing I wanted was to get involved in anything illegal. Not when I wanted to protect and defend the law as a future lawyer.
I jogged into the classroom. A myriad of perfumes bombarded me. The scent of lilacs, lilies, clean rain, and jasmine seeped into my nostrils. The last one almost made me stumble. That scent was imbedded in my memory and took me to a place I wanted to forget, yet remember, but didn’t dare. I rubbed my nose lightly as I blew out some air, trying to rid my senses of a girl with dark hair, blue-gray eyes, and lips I could kiss all day long.
Fuck.
“You’re late,” Mr. Brewer said as he tried to quiet the whispers filling the room. “Undress and get on the platform.”
The whispers all but died when he said to undress. Thankful for the undivided attention, I grinned as I scanned the room. Four men sat among the sea of women whose gazes were riveted on me. Some women shied away when I set my eyes on them. Others stuck out their chins, while others licked their lips. I’d bet my life half the women in the room weren’t even artists. They were horny twenty-year-olds attending a class to get a glimpse of Kelton Maxwell. It always amazed me how women reacted to the male species. Maybe that was the reason I took the job. Maybe I should have majored in psychology rather than math. But I dumped that thought. I wasn’t there to analyze anyone. I was there for the adrenaline rush. I was there because I loved the attention. My brothers thought I was way beyond crazy. But I was never the cautious brother. Fuck caution. “You’re hiding behind something,” my old man, the psychiatrist, had once told me.
Maybe so, but posing and showing the world the physical side of Kelton Maxwell was a high like bungee jumping, and I needed that rush like a junkie needed his next fix. Because I sure as hell wasn’t about to reveal my fears or secrets.
I sauntered over to the makeshift dressing area in the corner of the room. Once behind the wooden wardrobe panel, I toed off my boots then peeled off my clothing right down to nothing. The room was warm, and my body began to thaw. Mr. Brewer always kept the temperature high. He’d mentioned something about the warmth keeping the body at its natural state and coloring.