Filthy Gods (American Gods 0.5)(6)

He shrugged and walked by me, returning to his task.

I bit my bottom lip, staring at the clean, white tiles beneath my feet. If I didn’t go, whoever sent for me would be pissed.

I straightened, fixing my pencil skirt and found another bottle of whiskey stored in the storage room.

I left the kitchen, a heavy weight on my chest and the farther I walked down the elegant halls, the heavier the weight became. The grandness of the country club dwarfed every house I had ever lived in and coming from the foster care system, I lived in plenty.

Some decent, some crawling with lice and mold.

I lived through it though and that chaotic lifestyle had formed my determination to work hard for a better life.

My heels clapped against the ancient marble floors and I held my head high. Only a simple break existed between the rest of the country club and the men’s wing. Two dark wood doors, carvings of vines and peonies in its surface.

With one deep breath, I passed through. Into a world of men and power and politics and history. Presidents had strolled through these halls, discussing the prohibition or World War II or even as far back as Teddy Roosevelt. Since the 1890s, this had been a place of change and revolution and enlightenment.

And I was inside of it.

It was nothing short of thrilling.

Several rooms lined the hallway, but each door was open and the rooms empty. Portraits of men lined the walls, men of importance that had been a part of the club’s history.

And they all seemed to be watching me closely.

It felt the same way when I first had my tour at Yale. So much power and legend existed there and here.

When I saw a door was shut and light shone from underneath, I stepped closer.

I tapped my knuckles once against the door.

“Come in,” a voice said.

I swallowed, fixing my blouse and turned the knob.

I had expected to see at least two or three men in the room.

Instead, I only saw him.

My pulse spiked, my hand still holding on firmly to the doorknob, as if ready to slam it back shut.

Nathaniel sat in a leather chair, one powerful leg crossed over the other, his chin resting in his palm, fingers framing his smiling mouth.

“You requested whiskey,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice even, but I heard it. I heard the hiss sneak through my words and I clenched my jaw tighter as he smirked.

“I requested Juliette Monroe,” he said, his forefinger moving with the shift of his lips. “And whiskey.”

“I could get fired if someone finds me back here,” I snapped, gesturing around the room. So masculine in leather and dark oak wood and portraits of more powerful men glaring down at me. The office was paneled in Cherrywood and lined on one side with long, rectangular stained glass windows. So elegant, so refined and timeless.

“Why are you working here, Juliette?” he asked and by the gleam in his dark eyes it was clear he knew the answer, but he wanted me to say it.

I ground my teeth and shifted the weight onto my other leg. There was no point in lying, I’d only look like a fool. “Because I need the money to stay at Yale.”

He arched a brow. “Rumor was, you had a large trust fund at your expense.”

I cringed at that. I hadn’t started the rumor, but I hadn’t corrected anyone. People thought I was rich and had family in the south of France. I couldn’t bear to tell the entire campus of Yale that it was all a lie.

That I was a girl from Pennsylvania who had been shipped to different foster homes after my mother was killed in a car crash and didn’t have a penny to her name.

“Rumor was…incorrect,” I whispered, but I didn’t lower my head. No, I stared right back at him.

I wouldn’t let him intimidate me.

He hummed at that and uncrossed his legs. “I’ll negotiate with you.”

I lifted a brow. “About what?”

He stayed perfectly still and silent, staring back at me. Unlike most people, Nathaniel liked silence. He enjoyed watching people squirm. “About my silence. That no man or woman at Yale will know what you’re hiding.”

The bastard knew exactly where to strike. My chest pounded and I licked my lips. Biting back harsh words, I asked, “In exchange for what?”

That earned the corner of his mouth quirking. “I know you hate me. I can feel it from a mile away.”

I dug my nails into my palm. “Maybe if you weren’t such an ass, Nathaniel—”

“We’re both competitive,” he said, cutting me off. “We hold the highest marks at Yale,” he said, reaching for his drink on a nearby table. He let the ice cubes hit the glass, the sound filling the dimly lit room. “We both want to conquer. We both want to achieve the careers we desire and we’ll stop at nothing to achieve every single one of our goals.”

My throat felt too tight as I watched him, a man, speaking so calmly, so delicately, but stirring an impatient passion inside of me. That was the thing with Nathaniel. I thought I knew him, how he enraged me and then he brought out another, hidden emotion.

Lust.

Want.

Hope.

Him speaking of success and conquering and achieving my dreams sent a shiver down my spine.

He was speaking a language I knew all too well.

“I think for us both to benefit in our futures,” he continued, taking a gulp of whiskey, the ice crashing together and placed it back on the table. His ocean eyes drank me in and I thought perhaps, just staring back at Nathaniel, I could get drunk off of him. “We need to rid ourselves of distractions.”