Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I drop my bag on the floor and sink onto the mattress.
“You okay?” Jada settles beside me, kicking her feet up onto the bed.
My eyes narrow. “Define okay.”
“Fair point.” She pauses, but the way she shuffles tells me she’s not done. “You should probably talk to Hella. Figure out what's going on.”
I scoff. “I think I know what's going on.” My voice cracks. “He's done with me. Moved on. He probably found someone new and—”
“—He hasn't,” she cuts me off before I get carried away.
My eyes snap back to her. “How do you know?”
She shrugs. “Because he's been an absolute nightmare for three weeks. Snapping at everyone. Drinking too much. Nearly killed a prospect for breathing too loud.” She shakes her head. “That's not a man who's moved on. That's a man who's hurting and looking for an out.”
I stare off into the distance. “Then why won't he look at me?”
“Because he's a stubborn asshole who doesn't know how to process emotions like a normal human being.” Such a fucking catch.
“Great. So what do I do?”
“You wait.” She waves her hand to the side. “Let him work through his shit. And when he's ready, he'll come to you.”
“And if he doesn't?” I ask, brow raised.
She hesitates. “Then you decide if he's worth fighting for.”
The bachelorette party starts at eight. By nine, I'm three drinks in and the edges of the world are pleasantly blurred.
Yana looks beautiful. Happy. Radiant in a white mini dress with a sash that reads 'Ain’t your fucking wifey’, and Phoebe's coordinating everything with military precision, ensuring drinks stay full and music stays loud.
I dance with Jada and try not to think about Hella. Try not to wonder what he's doing at the bachelor party. Try not to imagine him with his hands on someone else.
I fail spectacularly.
Around ten, we migrate to the clubhouse. The party's in full swing. Music pounds. Bodies press. The air smells like whiskey and cigarettes and sweat. The combination sticks to my skin, seeps into my clothes. Makes me feel like I've snorted ten lines of coke.
I spot Hella immediately.
Of course I do. My body always knows where he is before my brain catches up. Some fucked-up radar I never asked for.
He's at the bar, surrounded by brothers. Laughing at something Ripper said. Looking relaxed. Content.
Happy.
The sight hits me wrong. Makes something violent twist in my chest.
My stomach churns.
Ripper sees me first, his face splitting into that shit-eating grin he wears when he's about to cause trouble. He waves me over, and before I can escape, before I can turn around and pretend I never came here, I'm being pulled into the group.
“Ladies have arrived!” he announces, smug bastard.
Several heads turn. Too many eyes on me at once.
Hella's gaze lands on me, all laughter dying on his face. Great. Because of course my presence has killed his night.
He follows me with calculated coldness that makes me want to punch Jada for ever stirring my delulu pot.
It's like I'm a stranger, wait, no, worse. Like I'm a fucking enemy.
My stomach dips. Everything inside me goes liquid and wrong.
Ripper leans closer. His breath smells of beer and concern. “Want me to kick his ass?”
“No.” The word comes out steadier than I feel.
“You sure? Because I'm pretty good at kicking ass.” He spreads his arms wide to match the grin on his face.
Despite everything, despite the way my insides are shredding themselves apart, I smile. “I'm sure.”
Another whiskey appears. Someone shoves it into my hand—I don't see who. I drink it. The burn feels like punishment and relief all at once. Then another. Someone keeps them coming, and I keep drinking them. The world tilts pleasantly.
Good. I want it to tilt. I want it to flip completely upside down.
Fuck him.
Fuck this.
Fuck everything except mine and Olive's little world back in Westbeach.
I push away from the bar and weave through the crowd. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the anger. Maybe it's the desperate need to understand why he's looking at me like I'm nothing when he sure fucked me like I was everything.
Wait. What the fuck am I doing?
Too late, he spots me approaching, his expression never straying from the iceberg of his—whatever he is. Not a flicker of emotion crosses his face. Not anger, not desire, not even fucking acknowledgment. Just flat, dead eyes tracking my movement.
“Hella.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a goddamn miracle considering how everything around me has caught fire. Including my self-respect, apparently.
“Melissa.” No warmth. No familiarity. Like I'm a stranger he's been forced to interact with.
I swallow, my throat dry despite all the damn liquid it’s drowned in tonight. “Can we talk?”
“About?” He doesn't even look at me fully, just keeps his eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, fingers tapping against his beer bottle.
Heat crawls up my neck, spreading across my face. “Are you serious right now?”