Chapter 3
1517 Words
MIDNIGHT COLLISION
~CHELSEA~
I stood frozen in the doorway of the old gym, my cleaning cart forgotten in the hallway behind me.
This was not part of my routine. The old gym was only on my cleaning schedule for Mondays and Thursdays.
But after that call from the hospital, I needed to think, and the steady rhythm of work was not doing it. I thought the empty gym might help clear my head.
It was not empty.
A guy stood in the middle of the floor, soccer ball at his feet, looking as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Tall, athletic build, with dark hair that probably cost more to cut than I made in a day. A Crawford Elite student.
"You're not supposed to be in here," I said, finding my voice. My master key suddenly felt heavy in my pocket.
He straightened, wincing slightly before covering it with a smile. "Neither are you, from the looks of it."
I stepped into the gym, letting the door close behind me. "I work here. What's your excuse?"
"Just getting some practice in." He nudged the soccer ball with his foot. "The main facilities close at ten."
"And you couldn't wait until tomorrow?"
"Not really, no." His eyes tracked me as I moved closer. Green eyes. Expensive watch. Designer workout clothes.
Rich kid problems. I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
"Well, I need to clean this space, so you'll have to leave." A lie, but he did not need to know that.
Instead of arguing, he studied me. "You're not a student."
"Great observation skills." I crossed my arms. "The uniform didn't give it away?"
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry. I just haven't seen you around before."
"I work nights." I glanced at his makeshift goal…two chairs with a rope tied between them. "Aren't there rules about using equipment without supervision?"
"Probably." He shrugged. "I won't tell if you won't."
That's when I noticed the slight swell under his knee brace. An injury. And the stubborn set of his jaw said he was doing something he should not be.
That wasn't my problem. What was my problem was that I needed this job, and finding a student breaking rules could go one of two ways.
I could report him and be the hero janitor. Or I could end up being blamed for not keeping the gym secure.
"You need to leave," I said again, firmer this time.
"Come on." He gave me what was probably his most charming smile. "I just need another thirty minutes. I'll be gone before anyone notices."
"Anyone except me."
"You don't count." He said it casually, not meanly, but it hit a nerve anyway.
"I don't count," I repeated flatly. "Right. Because I'm just the cleaning staff."
His smile faltered. "That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it?" I took another step closer. "Let me guess. Daddy's on the board. Or maybe he makes big donations. So rules don't apply to you."
"You don't know anything about me," he said, his voice cooler now.
"I know your type." I glanced around the gym. "This place probably costs more than my apartment building, but you act like it's your playground."
He was looking at me differently now, surprise replacing his easy confidence. People like him were not used to being called out.
"I'm just trying to practice," he said. "It's not hurting anyone."
"Until you break something. Or hurt yourself worse." I nodded toward his knee. "Then someone like me gets blamed."
He blinked. "How did you…”
"You're favoring your left leg. And you winced when you turned too fast." Medical bills for Chase had taught me to notice these things. "Whatever it is, it's not healed yet."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he might argue. Instead, he walked over to retrieve his ball, still favoring his left leg.
"Fine. I'll go." He tucked the ball under his arm. "Happy?"
I should have been. Instead, I felt a twinge of guilt. The guy was desperate to be here, the same as me. We just had different reasons.
"Wait," I said before I could stop myself. "What's your name?"
He turned, surprise evident on his face. "Kade. Kade Kingston."
Kingston.
The name hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.
Kingston Enterprises. The company had bought out Westlake Manufacturing three years ago.
The company that had promptly laid off half the workers in town, including my father. The company whose decisions had sent my family into a spiral we'd never recovered from.
"Kingston," I repeated, a bitter taste filling my mouth. "As in Kingston Financial?"
His face changed, wariness replacing surprise. He had had this conversation before.
"My father is Warren Kingston," he said carefully. "If that's what you're asking."
Warren Kingston. The man whose signature had been on my father's layoff notice. The man my father had cursed as he packed up his desk after eighteen years.
The man whose decisions had pushed my dad to drink himself into an early grave.
"You're a Kingston," I said, the name like poison on my tongue. "That explains the entitlement."
Something dark flashed in his eyes, something that should have warned me to back away, not lean closer.
"You don't know me," he said quietly.
"I know enough." I fought to keep my voice steady. "I know your father's company destroyed families in this town. I know you've probably never worked a day in your life. And I know you think rules don't apply to you."
He stared at me for a long moment, face unreadable. Then, to my surprise, he laughed—a short, harsh sound with no humor in it.
"Anything else you know about me?" he asked. "Since we're such close friends."
I felt my cheeks heat. "I know you're breaking at least three school rules being here."
"And what are you going to do about it? Report me?" He took a step closer. "Go ahead. I'll deny it. Who do you think they'll believe? The janitor or the student whose family donated the science building?"
There it was. The truth of our different worlds lay bare. If I reported him, it would be my word against his. And Crawford Elite had made it clear whose word carried more weight.
"Don't worry," I said coldly. "I won't report you."
Relief flickered across his face, quickly replaced by suspicion. "Why not?"
I hesitated. The smart thing would be to leave, to stick to my routine, and forget I ever saw Kade Kingston. But seeing him standing there, thinking he had won, made something rebellious flare in my chest.
"Because I have as much right to be here as you do," I said.
His eyebrows shot up. "What?"
"After hours, when I'm done cleaning," I admitted. "I use the equipment too. The treadmill in the main gym. The weights sometimes."
Understanding dawned on his face. "So we're both breaking rules."
"The difference is, I need this job. You're just bored."
"You have no idea why I'm here," he said, voice tight.
"Enlighten me, then."
He seemed to consider it, weighing how much to share. "I need to train," he said finally. "Away from everyone. For my reasons."
"Your knee?" I guessed.
He nodded reluctantly. "I'm supposed to be taking it easy. Doctor's orders."
"And you're not," I said. It wasn't a question.
"I can't." Something raw entered his voice. "I don't have time."
Despite everything, I understood that urgency. It was the same feeling that clawed at my chest when I thought about Chase in the hospital, waiting for treatment I couldn't afford.
"So where does that leave us?" I asked.
Kade studied me, calculating. "Seems like we both have secrets worth keeping."
"Seems like."
"So how about this?" he suggested. "You don't tell anyone about my after-hours training. I don't tell anyone about your after-hours gym use."
A deal with a Kingston. My father would roll in his grave.
"And what stops you from going back on your word?" I asked.
"Same thing that stops you. Mutual destruction." He offered his hand. "Deal?"
I looked at his outstretched hand, remembering everything the Kingston name had cost my family. But I also thought of Chase, of the treatments he needed, of the job I couldn't afford to lose.
"Deal," I said, taking his hand briefly. His palm was warm, and calloused in places I would not have expected from a rich kid.
"Great." He picked up his ball again. "So can I finish my practice now?"
"No," I said. "It's still my cleaning time. Come back tomorrow after midnight."
He looked like he might argue, then shook his head with a laugh. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Not you." He gathered his things. "I didn't catch your name."
I hesitated. "Chelsea."
"Chelsea," he repeated, as if testing how it sounded. "See you tomorrow, Chelsea."
He walked past me toward the door, moving with a grace that could not completely hide his injury.
- Writer
