Blues

33. Behind Blue Eyes

"My love is vengeance

That's never free.."

Behind Blue Eyes  by Limp Bizkit.

I wrench away from Dylan, the hot concupiscence deforming to arctic coldness, and my whole attention now rivets on Ethan. What am I missing here?

"Let's say that Claire has a new toy these days." Dylan answers, his eyes– like me–pointed on Ethan as well, the motley lights assorted on on his unreadable face.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's say that he wants into her pants, but she's toying with him for a while for the sake of her father's work." He laughs, but it's obvious that he's not the least bit appeased as he looks at them.

My eyes hone in on Ethan, trying to decipher what Dylan just said, and as if he felt me staring at him, he rises his gaze, meeting mine forthwith. He doesn't look surprised at all, lifting his hand to flutter his fingers at me.

"Go sit with Alexa." Dylan orders quietly, before he starts to walk toward his table.

I don't adhere to his command, not because he got under my skin by ordering me around, but because I have another plan in mind. "Not before I say hi."

Dylan stops, swerving to look at me with a sore gaze. "Just fucking obey me for once." He fuliminates through gnashed, snow-white teeth.

However, I don't even respond, making my way to the table, and Ethan's gaze chases me until I get there. "I had a feeling I'd see you here." Ethan smiles, his gaze running up and down my body with appreciation.

Pig.

"You guys are friends or something?" Logan asks, hauling his eyes between me and Ethan with curiosity.

"Exes, actually." Ethan counters.

"What?" Claire splutters, her face screwed up with a revolted expression. "You must be kidding me!"

"He's not." I avouch, enjoying her appalled countenance.

She snorts, flashing me a debasing side-glance. "Looks like all men are interested in dating trash."

"Watch. Your. Fucking. Mouth, Claire." Dylan declaims, his voice harsh and clear-cut, his hard gaze embedding her in her place.

Silence conquers, despite the clangorous pulsation of the music, and everyone watches the mute exchange between them, waiting for Claire to retort, but she doesn't, looking at him with shock and hurt at the same time.

"Actually," Ethan speaks, breaking the stiff, uncommunicative atmosphere. "I don't think trash is the right word to describe someone whose family is richer than mine and yours." He effortlessly drops the bomb, his voice sounding rather bored, before he leans back to watch the confusion as it takes over their faces with a slaked mien.

I stiffen, suddenly feeling shoehorned among their prying gazes. Smoldering, livid blood courses under my skin, and I center my eyes on Ethan, who–for some ambiguous reason–is reveling in their astonishment. And I want nothing more than to slap that smile off his face, just to teach him how to keep the things that don't concern him to himself.

"Oh really?" Claire asks, her eyebrows raised with disbelief.

"Haven't you guys heard of Jeffrey Woods?" Ethan inquires, his eyebrow arching with amusement. He looks at me, his face displaying simulated shock. "I can't believe you didn't tell them that you're a fucking billionaire."