“Already bleached from my memory. We’re never discussing it again. Now, delete the damn tweet.”
Cannon’s voice comes from the main cabin. “It’s already been retweeted over seven thousand times. Can’t put this cat back in the bag, but you need to delete it anyway.”
“Seven thousand times?” Shit. Bad Greer. Bad vodka.
“Motherfucker. Jesus, Greer. You know how to get people’s attention. Now, come on. I can’t trust you alone anymore.” He snatches the phone from my hand and wraps his fingers around my wrist to pull me off the bed.
As I follow him out into the main cabin, he tosses my phone to Cannon. “Delete it. Do whatever damage control you can. Fuck, shut down the goddamn Twitter account.”
I open my mouth to protest, but snap it shut when both men look at me like I’m a particularly troublesome child. Which I suppose I kinda am. I suck.
And I’m hammered. Instead of sinking into one of the leather chairs, I lie down on the couch and reach underneath for the blanket that’s always stowed there in these jets.
When I’m covered, I mumble, “Wake me up when we get home.”
Sleep has almost claimed me when Creighton says, “Oh, Greer. You’re not going home.”
Motherfucking bastard. I move my jaw from side to side, making sure that piece of shit Cannon Grove didn’t break it. It clicks just like it always has, but goddammit, it hurts like a motherfucker. Cheap shot. I wasn’t expecting him to swing rather than threaten.
My mistake, and it won’t happen again.
It’s not like I have a glass jaw, either. That prick hit really damn hard. Harder than I ever would have expected coming from a guy wearing a suit in the tropics. Valuable lesson, I guess. Don’t judge a guy’s punch based on his clothes. The next time I get a shot at him, though, I’ll take it. He deserves it.
I’ve already searched the house. Every single room. Greer is gone. Her purse and phone are gone too.
Watching her lean against her brother after he delivered the news isn’t something I ever want to repeat. Greer is a strong woman, and guilt lashes at me for being the reason she crumpled.
Fuck. After these last several days, I felt like we were building a new, more solid level of trust between us. But how solid can something be when you build it on a foundation of lies? If I’m being honest with myself, I knew this was all going to come crashing down sooner rather than later. But that doesn’t mean I have to accept it for what it is.
There’s a knock on the bedroom door.
“Come in.”
“Mr. Westman, would you like lunch while you wait for your plane?”
Cannon told Juan and Rea that I had to be out of the house as soon as my own jet arrived. Too bad the joke was on them. My jet subscription means that flights on short notice, especially international flights, can’t always be accommodated. The call I made today confirmed that fact.
“I’m staying until tomorrow, Juan. Jet should be here by nine a.m., and I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can.”
“Okay, sir. I’ll notify the owners when the house will be vacated, and Mr. Karas as well.”
As much as I hate Karas being kept up-to-date on my movements, I don’t have much choice. At least this gives me the rest of the day to regroup. Notifications on my phone are piling up—something my publicist and her assistant usually handle. But today they’re constant.
I click on my Twitter app to find out what the hell is going on.
Having high numbers of notifications isn’t out of the ordinary these days because everyone seems to have an opinion they want to tweet and mention me in, but rarely do I read them or respond. I’m about to change my mind when I see the first tweet I’m mentioned in.
Trouble in paradise per the creative @GreerOneBadBitchKaras. But at least we know @TheRealCavWestman has a big cock. #CelebGossip #Breakups
What the fuck? It’s the breakups hashtag that pisses me off. Greer and I aren’t done. Not by a long shot. I click on Greer’s Twitter handle and see what she wrote.
Oh, Greer. That naughty, naughty girl. When I track her down, she isn’t going to sit for a week without feeling the sting of my hand on her ass. If she thinks this is the end, she’s in for a rude awakening.
What she doesn’t realize is I already know how big a mistake I made when I walked away from her three years ago, and I’m not going to do it again.
A hand shaking my shoulder wakes me up, and I blink at the harsh light of the interior of the jet. “Wanna sleep.”
“You can sleep when we get where we’re going.”
Groaning, I force myself into a sitting position and immediately regret the decision. My stomach flops violently, and I lunge for the door to the bedroom and the connecting lavatory.
Note to self: Don’t ever puke in a jet again. Ewww.
Creighton waits at the door with a bottle of water and a stack of napkins. “You going to be okay?”
Grabbing both the napkins and the water, I attempt to hide my misery—and shame. I’m a complete and total fuckup.