He Claims Me by Cynthia Sax

whenever friends found out about my dad.
    â€œAre you ready to go?” Michael doesn’t meet my gaze.
    Goth girl pushes her chair closer to mine. “I thought you’d never ask, lover.” She flutters her fake green eyelashes.
    â€œHe wasn’t talking to you, freak,” Darla snaps.
    Goth girl stiffens beside me, my rebellious friend not as uncaring as she appears. “How do you know he wasn’t talking to me, Barbie? Does he clear all of his conversations with you first?”
    â€œShut up, Camille.” Michael glares at Goth girl. “I wasn’t talking to you, freak.” His gaze drops to her cleavage. “I never am.” Darla sniggers and Spencer smirks.
    I straighten. “Michael—­”
    â€œNo.” He holds up his hand. “You want to be friends but this isn’t possible if you insist on hanging out with her.” Michael meets my gaze, his blue eyes ice cold.
    In the past I would have buckled under the pressure, deserting Goth girl as my mother deserted me. “I insist on hanging out with Camille.” I raise my chin, now knowing if I care for someone, I should protect her. I shouldn’t run.
    Michael rears back as though I struck him. “You’re choosing her over me?”
    â€œI’m not choosing anyone.” I grit my teeth, angry with him for putting me in this position. “I consider both of you to be my friends.”
    â€œFine. Then I’ll choose for you.” Michael pivots on his Birkenstock-­clad heels and stalks away, his ass cheeks clenching and unclenching under his tight khakis. Darla hurries to catch up to him, hooks her arm in his and throws a triumphant smile over her shoulder. Spencer looks at me and then at Michael, shrugs and follows his friends.
    â€œYou insist on hanging out with me?” Goth girl’s voice sounds suspiciously watery. “Wow, moth. I didn’t know you cared.”
    â€œYeah, well, good minions are hard to find.” I grab my tote, needing to see Blaine. “I’m sorry for ditching you at lunch,” I mutter as I leave the pit.
    I ignore the group of women gathered in a corner of the room, looking at me with a mixture of disbelief, pity, and outrage, judging me. They don’t know me. They only see what I allow them to see.
    The receptionist has left for the evening, my check no longer on her desk. I step through the doors and blink, the sunshine surprising me. It’s only five o’clock yet it feels like years since I returned from my long lunch with Blaine.
    I walk to the bus stop and tilt my head back, gazing up at the blue sky. An airplane leaves a white trail behind it, its passengers knowing their destinations, their course chartered, their immediate futures set.
    My phone rings and I search through my tote. “Blaine.” I cover my mouth with my hand, blocking some of the traffic noise. “Is everything okay?” I ask him the question he always asks me when I call him.
    â€œYes, nymph.” Blaine chuckles, the low, deep sound arousing me. “Why aren’t you out with your friends?”
    â€œHow did you know I’m not out with my friends?” I look around me, searching for my enigmatic billionaire. Bumper-­to-­bumper rush hour traffic streams along the street. Commuters gather on the sidewalk. “Are you watching me?”
    A limousine turns the corner and slows in front of the bus stop. “I’m always watching you.” The door opens and Blaine holds out his hand, a phone cradled by his ear. I grasp his fingers, relying on him to steady me as I enter the vehicle.
    The door shuts and Blaine pulls me onto his lap, places his phone on the seat. I set my phone beside his, my tote falling to the floor.
    Blaine runs his hands over my body as though needing to physically confirm I’m with him. He freezes, his fingers hovering above the marks Michael left on my arms, the bruises striping my