Chapter 89 KNOX

Chapter 89 KNOX
Hunter turned toward Tracy and sighed with theatrical concern.

“Seriously, Tracy, Knox has made it pretty fucking clear he doesn’t want you. Hes said it, shown it, practically engraved it on a billboard, and somehow you’re still digging.”

He paused. "At this point you've dug so deep the devil himself sent a text. His exact words, and I quote: 'Either she stays down here, or I do. I've got standards. And a brand to protect. This is bad optics for hell, honestly.'"

Katy snorted beside Juniper.
Piper covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

Hunter pointed at them. “Thank you. Finally, an audience that appreciates my words.”

Tracy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Absolutely,” Hunter said, bright as ever. “But I’m a happy idiot. You’re the one currently arguing with a man who hasn’t looked at you properly in weeks. That’s not persistence, Trace. That’s a solo performance of denial with no intermission and a rapidly shrinking audience.”

Slate lifted his glass toward her. 
“That’s usually a fairly strong hint. Most people catch it around the third time someone doesn’t call them back.”

Hunter leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was offering genuinely valuable advice.

“Also, tiny bit of advice? When your so-called ‘ex-but-not-ex’ is holding another girl like that, calling her his girl, and looking at her like the rest of the room has ceased to exist…” He glanced at me, then back at Tracy.

“Maybe take the hint and stop whining and begging for his attention. It’s not a good look. It's a little embarrassing.”

Tracy scoffed. “Nobody asked for your opinion.”

“That’s the beautiful thing about me, Trace. I don’t require permission. Or an invitation. Or basic self-awareness from the people I’m roasting.”

Slate nodded solemnly. “He really doesn’t. We’ve tried installing an off switch. It failed safety testing.”

Tracy’s mouth dropped open. “Fuck you.”

Hunter grimaced, taking an exaggerated step back. “I’d rather not, thanks. But I appreciate the offer.”

I couldn't stop the grin tugging at my mouth. I looked back at Juniper, lowering my voice so only she could hear.

“Let's give Tracy a show she'll never forget. Something so convincing she finally stops treating our relationship like a conspiracy theory she's personally been assigned to investigate.”

Juniper stared at me. “You're enjoying this way too much.”

“Immensely. It's honestly the most fun I've had all week, and I won a football game.”

“Of course you did.”

“What can I say?” I shrugged. “Apparently, systematically destroying Tracy's entire worldview is my new favourite hobby.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

“And here I thought we came to a nightclub to have fun.”

“Fun is overrated.”

“Right.”

“Publicly demonstrating my exceptional boyfriend skills to an audience that never asked for a demonstration?” I nodded solemnly. “Now that's an evening well spent.”

“You're an idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

“Don't push your luck.” Her eyes narrowed, though there was a softness underneath them that hadn't been there before. “I'm still deciding whether this entire plan is genius or completely unhinged.”

“Both.”

“That wasn't reassuring.”

“Wasn't meant to be.” I grinned. “Unhinged genius is a very rare skill set. You should feel privileged to witness it up close.”

She snorted. “I'm not sure privileged is the word I'd use.”

“Give it time.”

“That's ominous.”

“It was supposed to be charming.”

“Try harder.”

I laughed, tightening my fingers around hers as I pulled her deeper into the crush of bodies and shifting lights.

The bass was already vibrating through the floor, swallowing conversation and leaving everything else to pulse around it—heat, perfume, the press of strangers who had long since abandoned personal space.

Juniper tipped her face up toward mine, eyes wide, some mixture of nerves and disbelief still clinging to her expression. 

“We’re not actually dancing, are we?”

“Of course we are.” I turned her to face me fully, hands settling at her waist, unhurried.

“We already told her we would. Wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

“I have the athletic coordination of a shopping trolley with one broken wheel. I can’t fucking dance.”

“Good.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How is that good?”

“Because then I get to look impressive.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The ego.”

“It’s one of my better features.”

“That’s debatable.”

I pulled her a fraction closer. “You don’t have to dance. Just follow my lead.”

“And if I step on your foot?”

“I’ll survive.”

“And if I fall?”

“I’ll catch you. Now shut up and let’s give the best performance of our lives.”

Two fingers lifted toward the DJ booth. The current track faded mid-bar, replaced by something darker, slower, heavier—heat built directly into the rhythm, the kind of song designed for bodies that already knew what they wanted.

I pulled her in until there was no polite distance left between us. Her chest met mine. 

My thigh slid between hers as I guided us into the beat, one hand spanning her lower back, the other finding the curve of her hip and fitting there like it had always belonged.

“You don’t have to dance,” I said against her temple. “You just have to let me.”

The first deliberate roll of my body against hers pulled a soft, involuntary catch of breath from her mouth, and something hot and immediate tightened low in my gut.

Fuck.

She felt better than she had any right to. Warm. Soft where she pressed into me. 

Responsive in a way that made it dangerously easy to forget this had started as a performance. 

I moved us through the music, controlled and unhurried, every slow grind of my hips drawing hers with me until we’d locked into the same rhythm. 

My hand slid from her hip up the side of her waist, fingers splaying over the thin fabric of her dress, mapping the shape of her through the material, then lower again, tracing the line of her body like I was learning it by touch alone.

Her fingers curled into the front of my shirt. I dipped my head until my mouth brushed the shell of her ear.

“That’s it. Follow me.”

She did—better than she seemed to realize. Every time I guided her hips, she moved with me instead of fighting the pull of it. When I pressed closer, she let me.

When my hand drifted higher along her ribs, her breath hitched against my collar. Heat bloomed where our bodies met, the slow, deliberate drag of the grind sending a current straight through me.

My thigh stayed firm between hers, and every roll of the beat pressed us closer until I could feel the exact shape of her against me.

I spun her out just far enough to catch her hand, then drew her back hard until her spine met my chest and my arm banded across her waist from behind—deliberate, unmistakably possessive. 

My other hand settled low on her stomach, fingers spread, holding her flush against me as I rolled us through the deeper beat. The scent of her skin cut through the club’s smoke and perfume until it was the only thing I could focus on. 

My mouth found the side of her neck for a second—not quite a kiss, just the barest graze of lips—and I felt her shiver against me, a full-body reaction that made my grip tighten.

Tracy stayed at the edge of my vision—rigid, watching, furious—and I let her. 

Let her see exactly what this looked like. My hands on Juniper. Juniper moving with me like she belonged there. Let her see it wasn’t the careful, controlled campus performance she’d spent all day trying to dismiss.

I turned Juniper back to face me, forehead nearly resting against hers, one hand still low on her hip, the other sliding up between her shoulder blades to keep her locked against my chest. 

Her eyes had gone dark under the lights, a little unfocused, lips slightly parted, and something reckless moved through my chest at the sight of it.

“You with me?” I asked, quiet, just for her.

“Y-yes.”

I smiled, slow and certain, and pulled her closer still, thigh pressing between hers again as the beat rolled on. “Good.”

The song stretched, heat and bass and the slow, grinding fact of her body against mine. 

My hands kept moving—waist, hip, the small of her back, the soft curve where her dress met skin—mapping every place the fabric allowed, every place that made her breath catch. 

I turned her again, slower this time, guiding her through a tight circle until she was facing me once more, then dropped into a deeper roll of my hips that pulled hers with me, chest to chest, no space left to pretend this was still careful.

Somewhere under the noise and the spectacle and the weight of half the club watching, I stopped thinking about the arrangement entirely.

All I could think about was how badly I didn’t want to let her go.

I spun her out just far enough for her dress to catch the light, then reeled her back in hard, one hand low on her spine, the other catching her thigh for a brief, deliberate lift that brought her closer still before I set her down again without ever breaking the rhythm. 

Her fingers tightened in my shirt. Mine stayed greedy—hip, waist, the place just beneath her ribs—learning every small reaction as the beat climbed.

The final swell of the track hit. Without breaking the rhythm, I dipped her—one arm firm across her back, the other steady at her waist, lowering her in a slow, controlled arc until her hair nearly brushed the floor and her body arched against mine. 

For a suspended second the whole floor seemed to hold its breath.

Then the crowd erupted.
Cheers. Clapping. A few shouts from somewhere near the bar. Hunter’s voice cut through it all, delighted and far too loud. “THAT’S how you do it, Reyes!”

Juniper was still in my arms, eyes locked on mine, chest rising fast against me as I brought her back up. The noise of the club crashed around us—applause, laughter, the next song already starting—but none of it reached the small, charged space between us.

For a moment, there was no Tracy. No arrangement. No audience.

Just her. Just the heat of her body still pressed to mine. Just the quiet, dangerous certainty that I was already in deeper than I’d planned.