Logan’s eyes lock with mine when I return to our booth. He briefly glances between me and his phone on the table, tapping the screen three times before moving his attention to Nico.
Not one word.
Not even a proper look my way, just a cryptic nonverbal order to check my phone. The Hayes brothers are arrogant, spoilt, and players, but there are good qualities among the flaws.
Loyalty to their family sits at the very top. By sleeping with me, Logan’s abusing their trust. My connection with Kaya is enough reason to hate me, even without adding Theo to the mix.
I take a seat, accepting a shot from Rush, itching to check my phone, but after pondering the idea for a minute, I leave my bag where it is on the table, in plain view, so Logan knows I disobeyed his indirect order.
If he thinks he can booty-text me after I caught him making out with a random girl, he’s got another thing coming.
“We need more shots,” Kaya yells, her hand draped over Rush’s friend, Jason, who nods and gets up, heading for the bar. “Alright! Let’s play that game.” She grabs the bottle of prosecco, downs the remaining three fingers of bubbly, and lays it flat on the table. “Spin the bottle!” She grins, watching the neck land on Aaron, the guy next to MJ.
No one protests. No one bats an eyelash when Kaya leans across the table. Aaron doesn’t hesitate, closing the distance to press his lips to hers for a hot and very inappropriate kiss. She’s a married woman, for crying out loud.
A married woman who’s hell-bent on making her ex jealous. She’s eyeing Nico every few seconds, checking if he’s watching, but he doesn’t pay her any heed, engrossed in a chat with Aisha.
I need another shot if I’m to survive this evening.
MJ grabs the bottle, which lands on Kaya, and again, neither hesitates before they engage in a make-out session. God, we’ll end up in a seven-way orgy at this rate.
Jason comes back with another tray of shots and, thankfully, a few glasses of lemonade. I grab one, clutching it close to my chest, feeling sick from the vodka and kiwi daiquiri.
Not the best combination.
It’s Aaron’s turn to spin, my palms clammy when the neck of the bottle misses me by one person, landing on Rush.
“No way,” he yells over the thunder of bass. “I’ll drink a penalty shot.”
“Penalty shot?” I ask, clinging to the idea.
“Yeah, if you don’t want to kiss someone, have a shot.”
There are five people at the table, and only one I’d consider kissing. Although with Logan twenty feet away, even that’s unbearable. Either I walk out of here drunk off my ass or subject myself to kissing strangers and my friends.
The table vibrates under my hand. I cast a casual glance to the bar, my eyes skimming over Logan, whose phone faces up, the screen lit. Toby’s busy making out with one of the girls while Nico’s grinding his teeth and glaring at Aisha.
I guess he doesn’t want to check what he’s been missing.
A heartbeat later, I cave, curious about what Logan has to say. If he wants to come over tonight, I think I’m drunk and brave enough to fight him. I pull my phone out to check the messages and lean back, making sure no one can see the screen.
Logan: Very mature. Lose the asshole.
Logan: Don’t fucking test me. Get up and go home.
Logan: You think he’ll walk out of here unscathed now that you let him touch you?
An unhealthy thrill washes over me, and my heart picks up pace. He’s annoyed. I bite my cheek to stop the smile that wants to rip my mouth wide open. He cares. Only for my body, but he cares enough that he doesn’t want to share me with anyone else.
He should’ve thought about that before he kissed the brunette in the middle of the dancefloor.
A few ideas for a reply spring to my head, but each sounds pathetic, jealous, or challenging. Each can be used against me, and all I want is to sever our minuscule connection with a scalpel: nice, clean cut, not a botched cheese knife job. No arguing, begging, or crying.
Nothing to hurt me anymore.
A small cheer erupts, rolling around the table like a wave. I lift my head, checking what got everyone so excited.
Rush watches me, toying with his lip piercing, and motions to the bottle, its neck pointing at me. Adrenaline ignites my nerve endings when he smirks, eyeing my lips.
He leans closer, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath fanning my cheek. “What will it be, babe? You want a shot or a kiss?”
I look away, straight ahead, my eyes locked on Logan. He’s gauging his fingers into the glass bottle as if he wants it to explode in his palm. He holds himself wound so tight; I can tell his muscles have no give in them. His shoulders are rolled back, eyes narrowed, jaw squared.
I’m captive to his gaze. Butterflies take flight in my tummy, and a wave of blazing heat slides down my spine and travels lower to caress the backs of my thighs.
How long can I keep this up? How long before I can’t get back up after people knock me down? When will I stop settling for being expendable? All my life, I’ve been just a means to an end. Never anyone’s priority. Never cared for or loved.
Used.
Neglected.
Abused.
Discarded.
Forgotten.
A never-ending cycle of hurt spinning round and round like the Merry-go-round. First, my parents who only cared about cash. Then, the foster families with identical goals. Next, too many friends who only remember about me when they need help.
Hundreds of small, invisible cuts and bruises on my heart and my mind. Endless nights spent crying. Endless days spent living in fear.
But I rise every time and face another day with a smile because I have hope. I believe that one day, the Merry-go-round will stop and spin in the other direction; that happiness will fine me if I wait long enough.
Until then, I have no choice but to fight for myself. Protect my heart and mind from more hurt because I’m not sure where my limit is. I might be dangerously close to the point of no return.
I swallow hard, mustering the remnants of strength to turn away from Logan.
We were never meant to be. It’s time to let him go, cry, and stop living a fairytale fantasy. Happily ever after only happens once upon a time.
“I need both,” I tell Rush.
He reaches for a shot and watches me drink while sipping his lemonade. As soon as I place the glass back on the table, he grips my jaw, closing my lips with his, the kiss hard, hot, and sweet thanks to the lemonade I taste on his tongue. His piercing digs into my lower lip as I kiss him back as best I can.
I feel nothing, though. No butterflies, heat, or tingling in my chest. Nothing, but vile shame sinking deep into my bones.
He stamps a cute peck to my nose, releasing his firm grip on my jaw. His lips part, but no words come out when my phone vibrates in my hand, forcing Rush to move away.
I unlock the screen, doing my utmost to uphold an impassive expression while I read the text.
Logan: Two words, one finger. We’re done.
The words hit me like an iron fist. Logan knows exactly what to say to inflict the most damage, to twist the knife and draw as much blood as possible. One sentence and all that’s left of me is a shell missing its pearl.
My instincts take over, and I fight to ease the pain resonating through me like the lowest A note on the piano.
A sob threatens to tear out of my chest while my heart is on its way down to my knees, but I move the phone lower, under the table. I pump my fists and inhale a deep breath through my nose, faking the most genuine smile I can muster.
Me: Thank you. I hope one day you’ll find someone who’ll be your priority, not just your option.
