Page 50 of Broken Pact

It’s a Friday night at the clubhouse, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and smoke, mingling with the sound of raucous laughter and clinking glasses. The Reapers are having one of their notorious parties, which means the clubhouse is about to get full.

Jagger and I made plans to hang out tonight, but I was currently in the bathroom, looking for my confidence in the mirror. I fluff my hair a little, finger-combing it to give it some volume without losing the barrel waves.

“You can do this,” I murmur to myself. “You know he wants you. This is what you want. So just go out and get it. Get him.”

I nod, pleased with my little pep talk.

I don’t even know why I’m stressing about this so much. He’s made his feelings very clear—well, that’s not entirely true, I guess. When Jagger and I are together, we don’t talk about feelings. We don’t really do that much talking at all really.

But I’m like ninety-seven percent sure he’ll be all-in when I tell him I want more than just casual. And those are damn good odds.

My hands tremble slightly as I reapply my lipstick, the bold red color giving me a surge of confidence. We’d been dancing around each other for weeks, and I’m tired of pretending that my feelings aren’t growing into something more than just hooking up.

Plus, I don’t know if I can take the constant hum of jealousy under my skin for much longer. He’s surrounded by girls—the club bunnies—and they’re all so gorgeous and literally always here.

But whatever because after tonight, it’s going to be different.

As I smooth down my hair, the door swings open, and a trio of girls stroll in, giggling and chatting. I stiffen, pretending to be engrossed in my lipstick, but their conversation catches my attention. I don’t recognize two of them as usual Reaper bunnies, but the other one looks vaguely familiar. So they’re either new or visiting from another club. I don’t really understand the club politics.

“Can you believe Jagger picked Heather for his bed tonight?” The brunette gushes, her tone dripping with envy. “I’ve been waiting for my turn for weeks.”

The blonde girl huffs, adjusting her bandeau top in the mirror, showcasing her incredible abs. “Ugh, me too. My cousin told me he’s been messing around with some local girl, but I bet her a one-seven-five of Jack I can bag him this month.”

My heart clenches when I realize they’re talking about me, but I force myself to keep listening.

The third girl, a bleach-blonde with sharp eyes, smirks. “This month? Babe, we’re gonna bag him this weekend. Once he hears our offer, he’s not gonna be able to say no. They never do,” she says, laughing as she swipes her lip gloss over her lips.

The brunette smirks. “Who could say no to all three of us?”

The three of them laugh as they leave the bathroom, unaware of the damage they’ve done.

I nearly choke on my breath, a bitter taste flooding my mouth. They’re just talking shit, right? Wishful thinking? They don’t know him like I do.

. . . but how well do I actually know him?

My gut clenches as acid flames of doubt lick across my chest. Intrusive thoughts begin to swarm my mind, each one more damning than the last. I try to push them away, but they cling to me like parasites, gnawing away at the confidence I’d just built up.

I shake my head, scattering the negativity like dandelion fluff in the wind. These girls don’t know shit, and I’m not going to let their cheap words ruin my night.

I twist down my favorite lipstick and cap it, rubbing my lips together to spread the color evenly. I roll my shoulders back and give myself a final look in the mirror.

Determination thumps in time with my steps as I leave the bathroom. But the moment I step into the clubhouse living room, my feet refuse to move any further.

Because sitting in the back corner on one of the worn leather couches is Jagger. With a random girl perched on his lap. Her hands drape over his shoulder with possession, and that little green-eyed monster inside of me perks up with a snarl.

His hands aren’t touching her, but he isn’t pushing her away either.

It feels like I’m underwater, everything moving in slow motion. I give myself five seconds. Five seconds of watching him do nothing and silently begging him to do something. Push her off, stand up, look at me—anything.

But he doesn’t. He just sits there, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he talks to the guys around him. The girl laughs, leaning into him, and my heart shatters into a million pieces.

Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk out of the clubhouse, my chest tight.

I vow then and there to never let a man make me feel like a fool ever again.

It’s his fingertips on my neck that brings me out. The scene that superimposed itself crumbles into dust and flees my vision like it's swept away on a breeze.

“You alright?”

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