Aarons - The Lion Heart: Rogue Academy, Book Two

D arkness shrouds the group of us, fresh off a magazine shoot in our teased hair and over-dramatic makeup.

I can smell the perfume and various products wafting off the girls as they walk in front of me, following the waitress to our VIP booth in this clich celebrity club that Ive come to loathe. Im not even sure why I came in the first place, probably because my fear of missing out got the best of me.

I never could fall to one side or the other of the fence; I either craved the limelight and sought out fame, or wanted to cower from it, locked away from the lenses forever.

Hey, youre the new Riare campaign model, a deep, polished accent shouts in my direction over the pulsing music.

Biting back an eye roll, I let my neck lazily, but gracefully, shift to one side. Its never a question of when Ill be recognized, but of which sloshed bar scum will try to throw cheesy pickup lines at me first.

Except, when my eyes finally connect with said scum, he is not the usual type. I have to physically school my features into distaste and nonchalance while assessing the man.

And he is a man, in all sense of the word. His long limbs spill over the couch in an almost vulgar position, his thick thighs spread and straining against the dark jeans hes wearing. Its as if hes inviting me to sit on his lap and feel just whats between those muscled legs. My eyes travel to his hands, large and capable, planted squarely on his knees. His frame commands attention, from the way his arms and torso fill out the royal blue collared shirt to the way hes sexily slouched against the plush velvet of the booth.

When my gaze reaches his face, I find his electric-green eyes, their color almost unattainably clover-like, winking with suggestion. His olive skin creases at his cheeks, where his mouth and chiseled jawbone are turned up in a wicked smirk. The sandy blond crop of hair is smoothed back with gel, giving him that debonair look all the athletes seem to go for these days.

The attire he dons is one of affluence, casual jeans and a button-up that probably retails for thousands, and I can tell from his accent that he grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Yes, I know who he is. This is Kingston Phillips, one of those footie legacy children who believes he owns London and all the women in it.

What makes him dangerous, though, is the kind of charm that comes with that upbringing and attitude. If you believe youre untouchable, you take risks. Risks that the public can see, and ones youre not afraid of answering for. Sure, I know very little about Kingston Phillips, but I encounter men like him every day. Its the ones who operate in the light, not the shadows, that you should be afraid of.

Ive clocked this guy in three seconds flat, he has nothing to hide and is probably one of those cocky blokes who is embarrassed by very little, if nothing at all.

But the fact that he thinks he has me figured out? Some floozy model wholl fall all over herself for a chance to kneel in front of him? Christ, there is nothing I hate more than when people think they know me.

And youre that cheeky football player who thinks he can bed anyone who bats an eyelash at him, I quip back, unamused.

Joining the other modelstheyre not my friends, were merely out together to be seen as suchat our table, I give him my back and open a menu.

Oh, I like her. The lone female with them giggles drunkenly.

I cast a quick glance at her. Shes beautiful in an unconventional way, and I envy her. When someone looks at her, theyre not just imagining which campaign or product she can sell. Jude Davies, anyone would know who the next great athlete of our time is, laughs and pulls her closer to him. She nuzzles sweetly in the crook of his arm, and I have to swallow the jealousy bubbling up in my throat.

Pasting on a smile, I get up, because while I may be direct, Im not rude. Poppy Raymond, nice to meet you.

You look like an Amazon. She blinks, shaking my extended hand.

I think shes too pissed to remember to tell me her name, but thats all right.

Youre beautiful, in a way only someone like you could be. Elegant, angelic, with the sex appeal of a loaded pistol but the grace to disguise it. When people see a woman like me, they automatically think slag or model; my looks are far too obvious. I tell her the truth.

Now I get it! Kingston cries from where he sits on the other side of Jude. Youre a lesbian.

Now, I really want to slap this wanker. He looks so pleased with himself for finding the obvious reason Im not interested in him, and it only makes me want to wind up and kick him right in the bollocks.

My lip curls up, and I know that cold gleam in my eye is boring holes into him. Im not a lesbian. I just know how to admire beauty, in a way that doesnt scream at everyone that Im a bloody git. However, if I were I would have ten times the game you do when trying to pick someone up.

The arsehole looks like Ive sucker punched him in the gut. His jaw hangs wide open, and the expression of sheer shock tells me he doesnt get turned down. Ever.

Oh my lord, I think hes met his match. Their fourth table-mate chuckles as he tips his beer back.

Why dont you come sit down on my lap and find out just how much game I have? Kingston waggles his eyebrows at me, undeterred from my obvious distaste.

This guy is bloody incorrigible. And, he has no idea what lies just under the surface of my pretty little facade. If he did, he wouldnt come within fifty feet. A guy like this would never deal with the festering wounds Ive hidden under the makeup and expensive clothing.

Make it to the first squad, come play in London among the ranks of the big boys, and maybe Ill give your theory a test. I smirk, practiced in the art of masking my true feelings.

I flounce back to my booth, pretending to be completely ignorant of the fact that anyone exists beyond the group of girls Im dining with.

But in the pit of my stomach, its all still there. The fear, the annoyance, the inability to trust. And the sorrow at not being able to let anyone close enough to test the theory that there are still, in fact, good men among thieves.

L eggy blond.

Leggy brunette.

Leggy blond.

Oh, switching it up with a leggy redhead.

Yes, I could sit here all night and watch these gorgeous models strut their perfectly molded asses down the runway. In lingerie, no less. Expertly tailored scraps of lace in all the colors of the rainbow. One would think that undressing these goddesses down to their knickers would leave nothing to the imagination, but if anything, the barely-there undergarments did just that.