“You should, Tom, because he’s unforgettable,” I sigh out the painful truth.
Tom’s attempt at conversation becomes background noise as a blanket of regret cloaks me. Regret now underlined by anger. A large part of me wishes I’d never flown to Seattle, never laid eyes on Easton, never raced after him out of that bar, and got into his truck. That I didn’t know the feel of his hands, the pull of his scent, the warmth that emanates from him. That I’d never got lost in his blazing kisses, or discovered the intensity of our chemistry, or felt the weight of his body on top of mine. I wish I’d never become privy to the intensity of his lovemaking, the mind-blowing feel of his thrusts and the rippling of ecstasy that follows.
That I didn’t know what it feels like to be the sole focus of a man so brilliant, so beautiful, so insightful, and so intoxicating. I hate that he tuned into me so expertly and managed to get truths about me in such a personal way that his words and behaviors with me reflect those points home so thoroughly. I hate that he’s taken so much from me already without me truly realizing it—until now—and I resent the fact that I’m the one who gave them to him.
As I pull up to the hotel feeling defeated, I decide it’s for the best. Easton did me a favor by dismissing me so cruelly. Otherwise, I might have always wondered what might have been. A small part of me wonders if alienating me was his intent, to spare me some of the heartache. Because, despite his disgusting behavior over the last six hours, he is just that type of selfless man.
I hate that I’ll never know that for sure.
All I do know is that it’s time to go home.
Poison
Taylor Grey
Natalie
Freshly showered, I glance around my hotel room and decide to bide my time by packing. With the late hour, I’ve missed every available flight home and can’t manage to secure a rental car. With nothing but time to kill, I take care folding my clothes before spotting my discarded Stetson on the table. Tears I refuse to shed threaten as I think past the hurt to the raw honesty he fed me just hours ago—of how I again refused him and rejected us.
I told him I wouldn’t change my mind. He didn’t think I could or would hold my ground.
I hate that I have, while at the same time, am glad I did because screw him for being so cavalier with my feelings because his were hurt.
Stuck in the hotel but determined to make my exit as quickly as possible, I decide to do one last search in hopes of finding a twenty-four-hour rental car company and see a missed ping from Easton to a nearby hotel.
EC: Penthouse.
He must have sent it while I was showering. I note the time stamp.
He sent the message twenty-three minutes ago. A go to hell ready on my fingertips, they hover over the screen as I continue to stare at the text. My stomach twists as the thought occurs to me that maybe the invitation is just a formality on his part. Maybe he feels obligated to host me. Either way, he can take his half-assed invitation that reads more like an order and shove it up his over-privileged ass.
I told him I would see myself home, and I will. Maybe he’ll assume I’m already bound for Austin by not replying. No part of me believes entertaining said invitation is a good idea, especially with how furious I am with him. The longer I linger in his universe, the more susceptible and vulnerable I become.
Fuck my feelings. They don’t take a back seat to my self-respect.
Annoyed with myself for letting him be the victor while painting me the villain for trying to spare our parents—us—nothing but grief and heartache, I set the phone down and continue packing. I stare at the back of the phone like the ticking time bomb it is. I have got to get the hell out of here. Even if it means switching hotels for the night, I can’t give him any more access to me.
I’m not in the wrong for doing the right thing, and he’s got no right to make me feel as though I am. He’s not thinking about anyone but himself—his wants, his desires, even if they do heavily mirror my own. Once packed, I zip up my bag as my phone rattles again with an incoming text.
EC: Joel is on his way up.
Just as I read it, a knock sounds on the door. “Son of a bitch!” I roar, jumping out of my skin as Joel’s chuckle and amused voice drift in from the other side.
“Sorry, sweetheart, did I offend?”
“Tell him I already left!” I call out.
“Well, considering he heard you—along with half the hotel floor—he’s not going to believe me.”
Glaring, I roll my suitcase with me toward the door and open it. “I’m leaving,” I lie. “So, tell him I got his message loud and clear.”
Joel’s infuriating grin greets me as he lowers his eyes to the bag in my hand. “Yeah, she’s packed.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Apparently, he’s on Team Easton tonight.
“Will do,” Joel says.
“If he’s got anything to say to me, he can say it himself.”
A second later, Joel holds out the phone, and I barely manage to conceal my flinch.
Okay, that backfired.
Joel chuckles at my reaction as I take the phone and open my mouth to speak, but Easton beats me to the punch.
“Don’t make me come after you, Beauty. If I do, you won’t like it. Neither will your editor.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Turnabout is fair play.”
“That’s so—”
“Fucked up? I agree, but I’m taking a page from your handbook tonight, and right now, I swear to Christ, I’m just the motherfucker to make good on the threat. See you soon.”
My jaw drops as he hangs up, and I glare at Joel, who has the good sense to look remorseful as he palms the back of his neck. “Shit, he kind of makes it hard sometimes for people not to hate the messenger.”
“He’s an infuriating—” I tick off on my finger.
“Daily—” Joel counters.
“Entitled—” I go on.
“At times—” Joel agrees.
“Relentless—” I fume.
“Only when he really wants something—” he tosses in.
“Selfish prick!” I finish.
“Oof,” he winces, “I felt that. So, I guess, here’s your chance to tell him?”
When Joel’s phone rings in my hand, I go to answer it just as he snatches it out of my grasp. “I’ll be waiting downstairs.” He turns and strides toward the elevator as I glare at his retreating back the whole way, a ‘traitor’ on the tip of my tongue. But he’s not a traitor. He’s Easton’s people, not mine, no matter how much I want to claim him.
When the doors slide open, Joel turns to see me fuming in the hall and mouths a quick “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head emphatically, refusing to let him off the hook.
“Properly,” he mutters into the phone, “I would say somewhere along the lines of a bull in a china shop,” he reports of my temperament, scratching his temple in obvious discomfort just before the doors slide closed.
I slam my room door shut and fume while pulling my phone up to call and read Easton the riot act. Unable to compose a text to convey the thousand and one insults I want to hurl his way, I drop my phone and fist my hands.
“All right, you son of a bitch,” I snap, “you want a fight. You’ve got one coming.” Opening my suitcase, I pluck the navy dress bag I packed last minute and unzip it. Though already showered, I take my time getting ready, hoping to tick both Joel and Easton off by making them wait.
Furious, even though I’ve given myself ample time to cool off, I paint my lips a glossy nude and slide into a form-fitting, shimmering white V-neck dress. The cut bares inches of my midriff, connected only by tiny gold loops on each side. The deep cut also gives ample glimpses of side-boob while remaining classy in fit, hanging a few inches above mid-thigh. It’s my ‘dressed to kill’ dress, and right now, there’s a real possibility of that turn of phrase becoming a reality.