Page 71 of I Stop Somewhere Waiting For You

If I thought Maverick Bishop was gorgeous before, I’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to ignore the walking sex appeal he exudes today. Mav was always in good shape, the majority of him solid muscle. The man in front of me?

Greek God status.

Just from my brief—though, literal—run in with his torso, I can tell he barely has an ounce of body fat on him. A light stubble covers his strong jawline, giving him a mature look. Though his scarred brow, partially masked by the unruly hair that slips forward into his face, still offers that bad boy appeal. Not to mention the tattoos—there’s more of them, woven in so intricately in certain areas like his neck that I can’t make them all out.

Taking note of the AirPod in his right ear before glancing down at his gray basketball shorts, I realize I’ve caught him coming back from a run. I glance over my shoulder, back toward the building, before returning my attention to him. It suddenly dawns on me that he still lives here… in the apartment we shared.

He’s staring at me like some mythical creature. I’m not sure he’s even blinked once throughout our entire encounter.

“Well,” I offer up in an attempt to escape the awkwardness overtaking us, “I should be going.” I slink back, my body turning away in retreat when his arm shoots out, encircling my waist and spinning me back into him. His muscular forearm pins me to his front as his free hand rises to stroke the side of my face and, for a brief second, I forget all the hurt… all the pain. For one single fleeting moment, my eyes slip closed, and I allow my cheek to lean into his touch. It’s as though every nerve ending in my body simultaneously sparks to life, coming out of long-term hibernation.

“Jones.” My name falls from his lips, resembling that of a heartfelt prayer. My lids flutter open, allowing my eyes to meet his gaze, and it’s like I’m eighteen all over again. I’m hooked, drowning in the overpowering presence that is Maverick Bishop. It would be so easy to hop right back in. Even now I’m slipping, struggling to remember what went wrong.

Then the universe does me a solid and offers a reminder.

The high-pitched ringing of a cell echoes out from our feet, and I suddenly realize he never picked up his phone when it dropped. Glancing down, I can clearly make out the name ‘AMBER’ flashing across the screen. His eyes drop, his arm slipping from my waist when he sees the call.

They’re still together. All these years later and they’re still together. Fuck, she’s probably living in the apartment with him.

Any feelings of sentiment quickly dissipate. With newfound resolve, I take a giant step back, my hands firmly planting in his chest to keep him at bay. A sharp exhale leaves his throat as my body separates from his.

“You should get that.” I gesture toward the ground with my chin. “Don’t wanna keep ‘Wifey’ waiting upstairs for you.” I shove off him, breaking into a strong stride sure to carry me the fuck away from here.

“Jonsie!” I hear him call out after me, but I don’t even spare him a second glance.

CHAPTER 34

MAV

Papa Roach blasts through my AirPods as my feet slam against the pavement at a steady pace.

Help by Papa Roach (Spotify)

Help by Papa Roach (Apple Music)

I try to run three miles a day. It’s the only time I give myself over to my thoughts, allowing them to be consumed by her. It’s my only coping mechanism, or at least the most effective one that doesn’t end with me putting a bullet in someone. It also happens to be the only way I can continue functioning throughout the day. For these three miles, all Jonsie-related thoughts are fair game as long as I lock them back up once I’m done.

It’s only a matter of time now, a mere countdown ‘til I encounter her. Even if we manage to avoid one another living in the same city, I’ll see her at the wedding.

These last few years have been lucrative, and I’ve made a lot of money for not just myself but also my savvy, crooked accountant. My accountant who just happens to be Daphne’s future father-in-law. Apparently, that’s earned me an invitation to his son’s wedding. Typically, I’d say fuck that. Especially when it comes to a cocky douche like Lucian Devoreaux. I still can’t believe Daph’s marrying that dickwad, or that Nicky’s actually gonna let it happen. But, at the end of the day, that’s not my business.

There’s only one reason I’m going to this shit show, and that’s the fact that Jones is Daph’s Maid of Honor, which means she will definitely be there. I probably should say no, considering watching her with her new boyfriend should qualify under a form of self-inflicted torture, but fuck it. I’ve been good. I stay away. I’m letting her live her life. If I want to torture myself for a few hours under the pretense of being forced into the same space, I’ve earned it. Maybe it will hold me over for another four years.

I round the corner of my block and my mind slowly starts locking down each infatuated thought of her, stashing it away until tomorrow. The song comes to an end, prompting me to slow to a walk. As I pop one of the AirPods out of my ears, the background noise of the city filters in once more. Withdrawing my phone from my pocket, I exit out of Spotify and begin checking emails.

I’m just about to fire off a pissed-off response to the zoning department about some bullshit with a potential new property when a body collides with my own. The phone flies from my grasp, hitting the ground as I reach out to grip hold of the small frame to stabilize her. A snarky comment’s on the tip of my tongue when the intoxicating scent of jasmine and vanilla assaults my senses, and I’m suddenly wondering if I’ve finally lost it, succumbing to full blown hallucinations.

“Shit. I’m so sor—” Her words cut off as her gaze zeros in on my hand and I know she’s real. It’s her.

She looks fucking stunning. Any memory I carry or picture I’ve spent hours staring at doesn’t do her an ounce of justice. Her loose blonde curls are longer than I remember, the soft waves framing her face as her crystal-clear blue eyes stare up at me in surprise. I would burn my empire to the ground for one more glance containing the love, desire, and adoration she used to reserve for me alone. Her pouty full lips are parted in a gasp, and I ache for a reminder of what they feel like pressed against my own.

“Mav.” My name spills from her lips in a whisper, but echoes on repeat in my mind, short-circuiting my brain. Flashbacks of what she looked like moaning it in ecstasy race through in a stream of steady images.

She tries to pull away, but my grip instinctively tightens.

No, please. Not yet.

“Mav,” she says, her tone serious. “Can I have my arms back, please?”

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