Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,53

my body seems to recognize this. My limbs go numb. My chest lifts, and the tingling pressure behind my eyes evaporates.

“Good night, Trace,” I say softly and swivel toward the shower to adjust the faucet.

The door clicks shut behind me, plunging me into the cold familiarity of loneliness.

I don’t come out until I’ve washed away the sweat, makeup, and glitter…and the resentment.

Maybe I’m too forgiving, but in my mind, there’s nothing to absolve. For a standoffish, reserved man, he’s been straight-up with me. He’s attracted to my body, but he doesn’t want the messy relationship. Yes, he had a weak moment. So did I. And he shut it down before it went too far. Before he hurt me. Deep down, I admire his restraint.

Adding to my clemency is my conversation with Father Rick at the homeless shelter earlier this week. I donate most of my income and while dropping off a check, Rick mentioned The Regal Arch Casino has been matching my gifts to a ratio of 3:1. For every dollar I donate, Trace has been giving three dollars on the sly. Maybe he saw an opportunistic tax write-off. But after all his huffing and puffing about giving my money away, he jumps on the bandwagon? What is he up to?

When I emerge from the bathroom, the dressing room is empty and quiet. But he left something behind. An envelope, propped against a can of hairspray on the dressing table.

I pull on a casual strapless dress, slide on some flip-flops, and open the envelope. Inside is a concert ticket, and as I read the print, my heart slams against my ribs.

Presenting Beyoncé at America’s Center & The Dome

It’s a single ticket for tomorrow night in a luxury suite. I’ve seen my favorite artist live once, and it’d been from the nose-bleed section. But to watch her from a premium seat? In a private suite? Holy fucking shit, I’m going to explode.

I bound out of the dressing room in a frenzy of excitement, taking the long way through the gaming area to look for Trace. He might’ve left me feeling unsteady and frustrated, but it doesn’t overshadow how grateful I am for the ticket. The need to say thank you in-person has me scanning all his usual spots—the restaurant, gaming tables, two of the three bars, the lobby.

Then I spot him twenty feet away, tucked in the corner of the third bar with a pretty brunette on his lap. He’s staring right at me.

My strides careen to a stop, and the concert ticket crumples in my hand.

I wish I was one of those people who can shield their emotions. I want to give him a smile, maybe even a small wave, and continue on like there isn’t an invisible band around my ribs, crushing my chest.

Be cool, Danni. Don’t overreact.

The muscles in my face ignore my demands. They contort, bunch, and turn cold, expressing everything I don’t want him to see.

Humiliation.

Hurt.

Regret.

Had I accepted his invitation tonight, that woman wouldn’t be running her hands through his hair, rubbing her double-D tits against him, or whispering in his ear. He wouldn’t be across the room, staring at me with dispassion deadening his eyes.

Rejecting his offer to go upstairs meant I’d be alone tonight. But the same isn’t true for him. And that’s the sucker punch that blurs my vision and turns my feet toward the elevator.

It’s a long walk across a short distance as I fight back the damnable tears in my eyes. Holding my chin up and gait casual, I feel like everyone’s staring. But they’re not. No one glances away from the beeping, flashing slot machines. No one cares.

That’s good. I’m just the resident dancer, tired and anxious to get home after a long night of entertaining.

If I’m honest, my reaction isn’t rational. For the past three months, I’ve watched women hang all over Trace. Watched his hand rest on their lower backs. Watched his eyes glimmer when he talks with them, drinks with them at the bar. He’s a player. We’re not together, not exclusive, not anything. Even though it felt like something only fifteen minutes ago.

I guess that’s the dig. Feeling the full brunt of his arousal in the bathroom, knowing he left worked up and fully aroused, and seeing the woman who will be enjoying the release of his sexual tension.

The woman he’ll be taking to his bed tonight. Instead of me.

For a moment, I consider stopping by a bar on my way home and picking a man