Page 52 of All That Glitters

“Hope you enjoyed your first and last time in the Shadow Ring.”

Chapter twenty-five

Unspoken

Jameson Sinclair

“We’re capable of walking on our own,” I growl at the guards pushing us toward the exit.

“Didn’t ask,” one of them replies.

I scan the crowd as we near the door. There are a few semifamiliar faces, but no one I’d even call an acquaintance. Maybe I have a class or two with them, but I couldn’t tell anyone their names. Except for Carson, who’s too busy chatting up some blonde by the bar to see us getting thrown out.

We’re shoved out the door and into the cramped landing with the doorman from earlier.

“These two are banned,” one of our escorts says in a low voice. “Mr. Rosewood wants them off the property.”

The doorman raises a brow.

“You must have done something quite heinous to incite the wrath of Hayes. I tell him he’s much too lenient,” the doorman says. It occurs to me this is his first complete sentence that doesn’t seem scripted.

“I need my phone,” I tell him as the guards leave and shut the door back behind them.

“First, smile,” he says while lifting a phone up. The flash goes off, blinding me for a second.

“What was that for?” Marigold whines, rubbing her eyes.

“Our records. We need to know your face so you’re not allowed back,” the doorman replies, back to his monotone ways.

“My phone,” I insist.

He gives me a dry look before bending down to a safe that I hadn’t noticed before. It’s the size of a shoebox, which indicates that most people know the no-cell-phone rule before they arrive.

“Yours was the only one tonight, so that makes it easy,” the doorman says, confirming my suspicions.

I take my phone from him and mutter thanks before turning to Marigold.

“Ready?” I ask her.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” she retorts, then starts up the stairs.

I follow her up and into the dim living room again. Neither of us say anything until we’re out on the sidewalk. Marigold looks at the Alpha Pi house with a despondent expression.

“I’m glad I didn’t tell anyone else about this.” Marigold sighs. “Then the failure would feel even worse.”

“Maybe we can figure out another way in,” I encourage her. “And if not, we’ve got the series on the hockey team. Charlie loves it.”

“The series isn’t mine, though,” she replies glumly.

“Is it so bad to share a byline with me?” I ask, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice.

It’s probably not good to push her when she’s already upset, but it’s past midnight and I haven’t slept well in weeks. The decision-making part of my brain has atrophied.

“Is it so bad to want something for myself? To want Charlie to notice my work because it’s mine, not because it’s attached to his favorite summer intern?” she questions in return.

“He said he asked you to be on this project because you’re one of his best sports reporters,” I point out. “What more can you want?”

She faces me fully and crosses her arms.