only way you’re ever going to be able to move on.”
I say nothing.
“Forgive her, Rhett. Not for her, but for yourself.” Irena pleads with her eyes.
I toss back the remainder of my drink and gather my composure. “I should get going.”
“Rhett.” Irena watches me stand, her almond-shaped eyes searching mine. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I leave. I leave because if I don’t, I’ll explode. I’ll lash out. And I don’t want to do that to her. She’s a nice person and she means well, but goddamn it. This is the sort of bombshell you drop on someone in private. Not at a Michelin star restaurant on the Upper East Side in the middle of a perfectly good Friday afternoon.
The second my feet hit the pavement, I’m on my phone, texting Ayla. It hits me as I round the corner that the last time she was over, she said she had a busy weekend, but I need her. I fucking need her taste on my tongue, her pussy on my cock, my hands in her hair, and that smart little mouth of hers on mine.
If I don’t get it soon ...
I text her.
* * *
Me: COME OVER. NOW.
* * *
Her: EVER HEARD OF THE WORD PLEASE? LOOK IT UP. MERRIAM-WEBSTER DICTIONARY. PAGE 603.
* * *
Me: I’M SERIOUS. MY PLACE. ONE HOUR.
* * *
Her: I’M BUSY TONIGHT. :( SORRY. MAYBE I CAN SQUEEZE YOU IN TOMORROW?
* * *
Me: COME OVER LATER, WHEN YOU’RE DONE DOING WHATEVER THE HELL YOU THINK IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN ME.
* * *
Her: I’LL THINK ABOUT IT. COULD BE LATE. MIGHT BE TOO TIRED.
* * *
I slip my phone in my pocket, convinced this is Ayla pushing me away. Maybe she’s over our little arrangement. Maybe a week in, it’s too much for her. It’s hard to find a girl who’s truly into the no-strings thing. Most of the time they just say they are, hoping you’ll change your mind after you see how absolutely perfect she is for you. Or maybe she just doesn’t like being someone’s sex toy on standby.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and just when I’m assuming that maybe she’s changing her mind, I’m proven wrong when I spot a text from Shane filling my screen.
* * *
Shane: TOTALLY UNDERSTAND IF YOU DON’T WANT TO COME TONIGHT, BUT COACH STILL THINKS YOU ARE. AND YOU SHOULD. STARTS IN AN HOUR. DO IT FOR THE KIDS.
Fourteen
Ayla
* * *
I found myself short of breath by the time I was halfway here, and it wasn’t because of my brisk pace. The pressure in my chest is almost unbearable, and there’s nothing I can do to relieve the tightness.
If Rhett comes tonight—if he sees me, it’s over.
I should have waited for him to finish his phone call the other day so I could have come clean.
I’m not good with coming clean, because I’ve never really had to do it before. I’ve always been straightforward and honest from the get go, with everyone. I’m not a seasoned liar. A good liar could lie their way out of a lie, but not me.
Maybe lie is too strong of a word? Omission of information sounds better. Does that make it more forgivable? I have no idea.
Guess I’ll find out soon enough.
I head through the automatic doors at the Spartans’ rink and make a beeline for the arena where kids in green t-shirts with Bryce’s face on them line up along the edge, decked out in hockey gear.
The stands are already filling with parents and spectators and this thing doesn’t even start for another hour. The skate-a-thon was Coach Harris’ idea. I’d never heard of such a thing. I guess people pledge money on some kind of tiered system, and the more minutes the guys skate, the more money they make for the charity.
Which is weird to me because the charity will already have a good amount of money behind it once I receive my inheritance, but that attorney guy Coach hooked me up with said it’s better to fund it with donations than money out of my own pocket.
I insisted we do both if that was the case.
“Hey, hey.” Shane spots me almost immediately, skating over to the side. He and some of the guys were gliding around the ice, showing off shots and moves as the kids watched. “Glad you made it.”
“Everyone here?” I ask. And by everyone, I mean everyone.
His brow furrows as he scans the room. “Wignowsky and Zagami aren’t here yet.”
My heart pounds faster, harder.