“Didn’t Ryder give you his new number?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t give me his new number. He doesn’t want to talk to me, Mindy.”
“That’s so weird.” I suppose it would seem weird, seeing as she doesn’t know all the facts.
“Besides, he hasn’t called or texted me, and I’m right here with the same ole phone number I’ve had since high school.”
“So that’s what this is about. You don’t want to make the first move.”
“Move? What, like we’re dating?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No, Mindy.” I push to stand. “Stay out of it, okay? Whatever is or isn’t going on between Killian and me is no one else’s business.” I stomp off to my room, fighting tears.
“Axelle, wait—”
I slam the door behind me and lock it just as the first tear falls.
I’ve been telling myself the same lie since he left—that he’s not calling or texting me because he’s too busy—but I know that’s not true. Not a day in four years of friendship has he ever been too busy for me.
Blake told me he’s alive and well over in London, that he’s training for his first official UFL fight. Cam’s throwing a big party at the training center where we’ll all watch it. I’m torn between being excited and terrified because seeing Killian on the big screen will be the first time I’ve seen him since he turned his back and walked away. I don’t know how I’ll feel seeing him again, but if it’s anything close to how I feel now, then it might be better if I don’t go. No one needs to see me have a total nervous breakdown.
I pull my phone from my pocket, drop to my bed, and curl onto my side to scroll through social media. Killian has a professional Facebook page that hasn’t been updated since a week before he left. I hit the Instagram icon and go directly to his page. His last post was a photo of him and Ryder at the Training Center, dripping in sweat after running for an hour on the treadmill. My finger hovers over the “Photos of KillerMC” tab. I’ve only allowed myself to hit this button one other time, and there were a few new photos posted of him by other people. Most of them were in a bar, and in all of them Killian was smiling. It hurt so badly to see him happy without me. I swore I’d never stalk him again.
And here I am.
With a deep breath, I close my eyes and hit the button.
Peeking through one cracked lid, I see…what? I sit up and stare at my phone in my lap. There are several new pictures of Killian.
I hit the first one and crank my head back in shock.
It’s Killian, his face damp with sweat and his hair hanging down over his forehead. The shot is taken from a side angle and Kill’s not looking at the camera, but down as if he’s thinking or catching his breath. The caption on the photo says “Determination at its finest with @KillerMC,” and the photo was posted by “PetiteFleur,” who, according to her profile picture, is a woman. Not just any woman, a gorgeous woman.
I go back and hit on the next photo of Killian. He’s smiling big with his head slightly thrown back as if the photo was snapped just after the punchline of a joke. His eyes are dancing even in the still shot, and the caption says, “Making @KillerMC laugh makes my day.” And sure enough, the photo was posted again by PetiteFleur. A sick feeling rolls in my gut when I see the last new photo posted of Killian is of two people together. With a shaky finger, I touch it, and when it goes full-size, my heart sinks into my stomach.
It’s him. And her. Their faces are pressed together cheek to cheek, and she’s doing bunny ears behind his head. The caption reads, “Showing @KillerMC around London is like seeing it for the first time. #luckygirl.”
So that’s it then. He’s moved on.
That’s great. It’s exactly what I wanted for him, a chance to be happy, and from the looks of it, he seems… I hate to even admit it, but he seems happier than he ever seemed here in Vegas. How could he not be? He’s dating a girl who doesn’t need to be held while she cries for days because her father rejected her. He’ll probably never find himself in a situation where he needs to punch her biological father for ambushing her at a hospital. He’ll never have to drag her drunk ass out of a man’s bed to keep her from being molested or raped.
After stalking her IG page, I see she’s also a fighter. So they probably train together, play together, and sit around and talk about fighting until they’re blue in the face.
My God, her real name is Fleur for fuck’s sake. She’s perfect for him. And I’m grateful for the selfies she’s posted of herself in her skin-tight spandex workout clothes, because knowing she has a flawless body to match her model face is as fucking comforting as a habanero enema.
“Dammit!” I toss my phone to my bedside table and bite my quivering lip.
If this is what I wanted for him, why does it hurt so fucking bad?
I want him to be happy. I just wanted him to be happier with me.
Twenty-five
Killian
Another snap sounds.