Slash's Snakepit

Grace's pov ~

I haven't stopped thinking about him.

It's fucking annoying.

Days have passed since our last "date," and we haven't talked since. Not a single call. Not a single text. Nothing. But somehow, he's still in my head, lingering like cigarette smoke in a room that hasn't been aired out.

I tell myself it's because of the arrangement, because of the way my name's been making headlines, because of the way my phone keeps ringing with new opportunities.

But I know that's bullshit.

It's him.

The way he looks at me. The way he talks to me. The way he makes me feel like I'm something worth chasing.

And I hate that I like it.

I glare at my reflection, tugging at the fabric of the dress my agency sent over for the AMAs. It's red. A deep, sinful kind of red. The kind that clings to my body like it was sewn onto my skin. Thin straps, a plunging neckline that barely covers my tits, and a slit up my thigh so high it should be illegal. It's not just sexy-it's obscene. A dress made for attention, for cameras, for headlines.

And it fits me perfectly.

I should feel embarrassed. Maybe a few months ago, I would have.

But now?

Now I feel fucking powerful.

Maybe it's the way people look at me differently lately. Maybe it's the way I've started to look at myself differently. Or maybe-fuck, I hate to even admit it-maybe it's because of him. Because ever since this whole fake-dating disaster started, I feel like I've got permission to exist in my own body again. To take up space. To be looked at.

I run my hands down my sides, watching myself in the mirror. I look good. Strong.

And for the first time in a long time, I don't hate what I see.

When I step outside, he's already there.

Third time now. Same car. Same cocky posture behind the wheel. Same way he watches me through the windshield like he already owns me.

I slide into the passenger seat, and before I can even pull my dress fully inside, he's smirking.

"Starting to feel like a goddamn chauffeur," he mutters, one hand on the wheel, the other flicking at the silver rings on his fingers. "I keep picking you up like this, might as well start charging your ass for gas money."

I let out a laugh, an actual, real laugh, and shake my head. "I'll make sure to tip you, then."

His smirk deepens. "Baby, the only tip I'd take from you wouldn't cost a damn cent."

I roll my eyes, but I don't fight the heat crawling up my neck. "You're impossible."

"And you love it," he shoots back, eyes dragging over me like he's already undressing me with his mind. "Jesus, look at you."

I know this dress was made to get a reaction, but fuck, the way his gaze settles on me. He doesn't just look. He devours.

"Too much?" I ask, arching a brow, pretending like I don't already know the answer.

"Too much?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "Nah, sweetheart. Just enough to drive a man fucking insane." His fingers drum against the gear shift. "Hope you don't mind people staring at you all goddamn night. 'Cause I promise you, they will."

I should feel self-conscious. I should feel annoyed.

Instead, I feel my lips curving into a smirk.

"Yeah?" I lean in slightly, my voice dropping just a little. "What about you, Slash? You gonna be staring all night too?"