Deal
1794 Words
Sloane's POV
Before anyone could say another word, William's face twisted into something ugly, his good eye narrowing to a slit.
"No," he barked, stepping forward like he owned the damn place. His hand shot out, grabbing Victoria's arm hard enough to make her wince.
"Absolutely not. No way in hell is she going anywhere with him."
Victoria's head snapped toward him, surprise flashing across her face before it hardened. She yanked her arm free, but not before shooting him a mad glare. Then, quick as a switch, she turned to Hunter, her voice syrupy sweet, all smiles and deference.
"Oh, Mr. Whitman, we wouldn't dream of refusing. Of course, we'll make this right. Sloane here? She'd be thrilled for a date. Isn't that right, honey?"
She looped her arm through mine, nails digging in like hooks.
I froze, her words slamming into me.
A date? With him?
My stomach churned, Juno's faint whine echoing in my chest. The rumors flooded back—Hunter's "new target" curse, girls tumbling into his bed like it was inevitable, waking up as pack jokes, branded sluts while he walked away unscathed.
Not me. I won't be that girl.
But Victoria's grip tightened, her whisper hot against my ear.
"You say yes, Sloane. Right now. Or we lose the bakery. And that ten grand? Forget it. We're done. Out on the street again. Your choice."
Her eyes bored into mine. I swallowed hard, throat dry. "I..."
William's face went red, veins bulging in his neck.
"The hell she will!"
He swung his arm, slapping Victoria's hand off. She stumbled back a step, rubbing her wrist, shock turning to hurt in her eyes.
He didn't even look at her—just stormed toward the door, muttering curses under his breath. The door banged shut behind him.
Victoria's lip trembled for a second.
"William, wait—" She bolted after him, leaving a trail of awkward silence.
Just like that, it was me, Hunter, and Sienna.
Hunter didn't miss a beat. He plucked a sleek black phone from Sienna's outstretched hand—new, shiny, nothing like my cracked old brick—and tossed it to me like it was pocket change.
I caught it on reflex, the cool glass heavy in my palm.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice low and casual, like we were old pals. "I'll call. Be ready."
He didn't wait for a nod, just turned on his heel, Sienna falling in step beside him like a shadow.
The door swung shut again, quieter this time.
I stared at the phone, thumb tracing the screen.
What the hell just happened?
The station emptied out around me, noise fading.
No ride home. No bus this late. Just me and the night.
I shoved the cake box in the trash by the door and stepped outside, summer air thick and sticky against my skin. The subway station was a few blocks away, feet dragging on cracked sidewalk. Streetlights flickered, casting long shadows.
A voice cut through the quiet. "Sloane? That you?"
I whipped around.
Jax Reed leaned against a lamppost, all broad shoulders and easy grin, his deep brown hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of a fight or a laugh—hard to tell with him.
He pushed off, closing the distance in two strides, that warm smile lighting up his face. "Hey! What're you doing out here this late? You okay?"
Jax. My old friend from back in the day, the beta kid who'd always had my back without asking for a damn thing. He is an angel.
"Jax. Hi. Yeah, just... long night."
He fell into step beside me, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Long night, huh? You look like you could use a coffee. Or a stiff drink. Friends dragged me out for eats nearby—pack stuff. Heading back now. Subway?"
I nodded, grateful for the company. "Yeah. Same."
The station stairs loomed, cool air rushing up. We swiped in, the turnstile clanging behind us. Platform was empty, just the hum of tracks and distant rumbles.
Jax leaned against a pillar, eyes scanning my face. "Seriously, though. You good? You look... off. Anything I can do?"
His concern wrapped around me. Jax—always the fixer, the guy who'd punch a bully or share his lunch without a second thought. But spilling about Hunter? The date? The mess?
No. That'd drag him into it.
"I'm fine. Really. Just tired."
He searched my eyes a beat too long, then nodded, forcing a grin.
"Alright. But if it's that jerk from school again—"
"Not that." I managed a weak laugh, but it died quick. The train screeched in, doors hissing open.
We grabbed seats across from each other, the car rocking gentle as it pulled away.
Jax launched into stories—some dumb bet with his buddies over who could chug a beer fastest, a pack run gone sideways with a mudslide. His laugh boomed, eyes crinkling, trying to pull me in.
"Come on, Sloane. Remember that time we snuck into the old mill? You dared me to climb the rafters, and I nearly ate dirt."
I smiled, faint. "Yeah. You did."
But my mind wandered, snagging on Hunter's smirk, the phone burning a hole in my pocket.
New target.
God, the whispers it'd spark. Girls like me didn't get princes—they got pity, or worse, labels. Slut. Easy. While he played hero in someone else's story. Why did we always end up the villains in our own?
Jax's jokes tapered off, his grin fading into something heavier. He rubbed the back of his neck, voice dropping. "Hey. Talk to me. Whatever it is."
I shook my head, forcing brightness. "Nothing. Promise."
The train slowed, doors opening to his stop. He stood, hesitating.
"Look, my place is close to yours. Let me walk you? It's late."
Warmth flickered—Jax, always the knight. But pity? No thanks.
"I'm good. Really. Don't want to drag you out of your way."
He paused, hurt flashing quick before he masked it with that easy smile. "Suit yourself. Text me if you change your mind? Or, y'know, anytime."
The doors beeped, swallowing him up. I watched the platform blur past, regret settling heavy.
Should've said yes.
But pride's a b***h.
My stop came too soon. The walk from the subway stretched longer than it should, streets narrowing. Trees clawed at the sky, shadows twisting under dim moon light. Every rustle had me jumping.
Stupid. Should've let him.
But I picked up pace, keys jangling in my fist. Home loomed finally—dark windows staring blank.
Inside was tomb-quiet, no hum from the fridge or TV drone. But the living room light was off, just a lump on the sofa: Victoria, shoulders slumped like the weight of the world had finally won.
"Mom?" I flicked on a lamp, soft glow spilling over her. She didn't move, face buried in her hands.
Guilt twisted sharp. "Is this... because of me? The cake? The mess?"
She looked up, eyes red-rimmed, mascara streaked. No answer—just a hitch in her breath, then the dam broke. Quiet sobs shook her.
My chest ached, soft and sore. I dropped to my knees by the sofa, hand hovering before settling on her knee.
She swiped at her face, voice cracking.
"William... he's so mad, Sloane. We got home, and he wouldn't even look at me. Just... silent. Then he slammed out, said he needed air. To think."
Another sob, muffled in her sleeve.
"The bakery's barely hanging on. Sales down, debts piling. I can't go back to scraping by on the road, eating trash from dumpsters, sleeping in that truck. I worked so hard for this—for us. And now? He yells like it's my fault. Like pushing you toward one stupid date is the end of the world. It's not! One date, and poof—no payout, and we snag that school contract. Bread for the kids, steady cash. What's so wrong with that?"
Her words hung, laced with hurt.
I saw it then—the lines etched deep from too many worries, the way her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt. And William... god, she loved him. Twisted as it was, in her eyes, he was the anchor she'd clung to after Dad. The one who'd promised stability.
Guilt crashed over me, heavier than Hunter's demand. This was my screw-up. My fault she was breaking.
I squeezed her knee, voice steady. "I get it. It's not your fault. None of it."
My hand slipped to my pocket, fingers brushing the phone's edge.
Tomorrow. A date. Rumors be damned—I wouldn't let her shatter for me. "I'll fix this. The date? I'll do it. Promise."
Her head lifted, eyes searching mine—relief flickering through the tears. "You mean it?"
"Yeah." I helped her up, arm around her waist as we shuffled to the bedroom. She leaned heavy, steps slow. In the bathroom doorway, I grabbed the sleeping pills from the cabinet, pouring water from the pitcher.
"Here. Take these. Sleep it off."
She swallowed them down, nodding numb. "Thanks, Sloane."
The door clicked soft behind her, and I climbed to my attic, legs leaden. The room swallowed me. I slid down against the door, knees to chest, exhaustion hitting like a wave. Today replayed in flashes: the burn, the delivery, Hunter's grip, the station circus.
Too much.
Tears pricked, hot and tired, but I blinked them back. Juno curled tight inside, a silent comfort.
Minutes blurred—maybe hours. My skin itched, sticky with sweat and stress. Shower. Yeah. I grabbed my sleep shirt and shorts from the hook, padding downstairs quiet as I could.
The bathroom door creaked anyway, thin wood protesting. I eased it shut, heart picking up. Small space, mirrors fogging already from the humidity. The glass panel in the door was frosted, but not enough—cracks let shadows peek.
I snatched a rag from the sink, draping it over the glass, tucking edges tight. Then a towel, jammed into the window sill's gap, blocking any draft or view.
Safe enough.
Water hissed from the showerhead. I stripped quick, stepping under the spray, soap lathering rough over my arms, the burn stinging fresh. Tension eased, just a bit—head back, eyes closed, letting it rinse the day away.
Halfway through, it came.
Footsteps. Light, deliberate, like someone testing the boards.
My eyes snapped open, spray pounding my shoulders.
No.
Heart slamming, I twisted the knob—water off. Bare feet silent on tile, I crept to the door, ear pressing cold wood. Breath held.
There—muffled, heavy. A man's gasp, low and ragged, laced with lust.
William.
Always him.
- Writer
