Chapter 5: The Closet

POV: Jessie Marlowe

I'm still staring at the dark hallway where Silas disappeared when a hand closes around my wrist.

"Come with me."

Martins. I twist around. He's right there. Jaw tight. Eyes fixed on me like this conversation was already over.

"I'm not going anywhere with you, Heller."

"Now, Jessie." He doesn't raise his voice. "Don't make a scene."

He tugs me off the stool before I can argue. I stumble. My boot catches on a sticky patch of floor. I catch my balance on his shoulder, and his hand drops to my lower back, fingers digging in just enough to steady me. The bar is packed. People dancing. Drinks spilling. Somebody yelling over the bass. Tinsley is still tangled up with Trent by the back hallway. Brooke is laughing at something Nolan said, her head tipped back. Nobody is watching us.

"Where are we going?"

"Just walk."

"People are staring."

"I don't care."

He pulls me through the crowd. Down the narrow hallway past the restrooms. The carpet here is torn at the edge, curling up in ugly brown strips. He shoves open a door I didn't even see. Supply closet. It smells like industrial lemon bleach and sour mildew. The door clicks shut. The bass disappears. Now it's just us.

"What is your problem?" I yank my wrist back. "You think you can just drag me around?"

I forget there's nowhere to go. One second I have room. The next his hands are on either side of my head. I'm backed against a shelf of cleaning supplies. I press my spine flat against the metal, trying to make myself smaller. A plastic bottle of floor wax rattles against the shelf.

"You think you can walk into my bar, let Jonah put his hands all over you, and I'm supposed to just sit there?"

"I didn't let him."

"You didn't stop him."

I shove at his chest. He barely rocks back. "You have a girlfriend. In case you forgot."

"I know."

"So what are you doing?"

"I don't know." He leans in. I should move. I don't. His smell hits me. Soap and cold air. Just him. "You've been in my head all night."

I don't know what to say to that. I just stare at his mouth.

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yeah." His voice drops. "You are."

He kisses me.

It's not gentle. Not asking. His mouth presses against mine. One hand leaves the shelf and grabs my hip. His grip tightens. I make a sound I didn't plan on making. It disappears into the kiss.

"Jesus," he mutters against my mouth. "You smell..."

"Like bleach?"

"Like I can't think straight."

His tongue slides past my lips. I kiss him back. I don't decide to. I just do. My hands grab his shirt before my brain catches up. The cotton is damp with sweat at the collar. He smells like the ice rink, but warmer.

He crowds me back until my spine hits the shelf. My elbow knocks a plastic bucket. It clatters against the concrete. Neither of us stops. My knee bumps a mop handle.

His hand leaves my hip and finds the button of my jeans. The metal is cold. My fingers are shaking too much to do anything. The sound of it popping open is way too loud in the quiet.

"Martins."

"Say stop."

I should. The word is right there on my tongue. I shake my head instead. He makes a sound low in his throat.

His fingers slip under my waistband. I forget how to breathe. He groans. His forehead drops to my shoulder for half a second. Then his mouth finds my neck. His stubble scrapes my skin.

"Your pulse is going crazy," he says against my skin.

"You're standing really close."

"Am I making you nervous?"

"Shut up."

He laughs. Just a breath. Not funny. His fingers move. My hips jerk into his hand before I can stop them. Slow at first. Then faster when I make another sound. His hand is rough, calloused from gripping hockey sticks all week.

"Right there," I whisper. I immediately wish I hadn't.

His thumb finds where I need it. His teeth graze my neck. It feels like touching a live wire. Everything inside me pulls tight. His name comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. I come on his hand. Shaking. Biting my lip so hard I taste copper.

He keeps going until my knees nearly give out.

Then he stops. Pulls his hand back. He's still hard against my hip. But he doesn't do anything about it. Just stands there breathing hard. Staring at my throat.

"We should..."

A knock.

"Martins? Are you in there?"

Lila.

Her voice cuts through everything. He freezes. The look on his face shifts. Hunger to something closer to panic.

"Damn it."

I fumble with my jeans. My hands are shaking so bad I miss the button. Twice. I can't get a grip on it. The metal keeps slipping against my thumb.

"Your hair," he says. His voice comes out rough.

"What about my..."

"Just fix it."

He unlocks the door. Slips out before I can finish. Through the wood I hear Lila's voice. Sharp and annoyed.

"I've been looking everywhere for you. What were you doing in a closet?"

"Nothing. Just needed a minute. Let's go."

Footsteps. Fading.

I lean against the shelf. My legs are still not working right. I slide down an inch, then catch myself. My chest feels completely hollowed out. The bleach smell is making my head spin. Or maybe that's everything else. I reach for my phone to turn on the flashlight. Before the screen lights up, I catch my reflection in the dark glass of a washing machine shoved in the corner. The glass is smudged with dirty fingerprints.

My eyes are glowing.

Not reflecting. Glowing. Bright gold. Impossible.

I drop the phone.

It hits the concrete. The screen lights up. I look again. Brown eyes. Just brown. Normal.

Nothing.

What the hell is happening to me?