Page 121 of The Kiss of Deception

The secret is out.

The scandal has exploded.

And Miles’s career is headed for the grave.

Miles. No longer the golden son, now Judas Iscariot.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Restlessness chases away the numbness, the linen of my pants rustling against the chair as my knee bounces up and down, up and down. I don’t bother trying to stop it. The effort seems as draining as it is pointless.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was never supposed to come out like this. Like some seedy negotiation done under the wraps. In the way it is framed, it’s potentially career-killing.

We had a plan. Together, we built a plan to announce the controversial transfer in a way that would lessen the harm to all the parties involved—it would be part two of his short-story—as soon as the season ended.

And now… now, my Grandpa could lose his life. My boyfriend could lose his career. I have lost all rationality when I need it most.

I know, in the grand scheme of things, life trumps career and soccer—football—is only the most important of life’s least important things.

But there’s nothing I can do here. The surgery will continue for hours before it ends—even then, I wouldn’t be allowed to see him so soon.

I have time to go to Miles, then come back as soon as I can hug my grandfather. Hopefully.

And I need to check on Miles. His situation is one I can help. I have contacts in the press world, favors to collect. Maybe I can trace whoever leaked the story. Maybe I can help with damage control. Even if I can’t do anything to make this all go away, I can be there for him.

But how can I make that choice?

How can I choose between the two most important men in my life?

I force oxygen into my lungs and my veins, willing my mind to clear and the pulse in my neck to stop speeding.

There's no time to fall apart. I can do that later, when this is over—however that may be.

It’s in chaos that reason and logic are needed most. That has always been my strong suit.

I get up from the chair and make my way to the car on wobbly legs.

My blurry eyes blink when the ornate iron spears cut my way, tall, vertical and perfectly parallel. And blinding, under the headlights.

With a slow press of the break, I’m troubled to realize it’s our community gate. Nothing from the forty-minute drive from the hospital registered except the urgency to come home. It’s like I sat on the leather seat and blinked one long, long blink, and the next thing I know, I’m home. My mind, far away, disconnected from my body—scattered between a hospital room and my boyfriend.

Always polite, I wave at the security officer on duty, and navigate the calm closed streets. I decide to park the Jeep in the driveway in case I need to hurry to the hospital again.

I can’t find the keys for the front door, so I head to the garage entrance. As soon as I open the door that connects to the house, strange voices reach me, harshly clearing my mental fog.

“Did you tell her? Did she know?”

“She’s my girlfriend. Of course she knows.” It’s Mile’s voice, but I’ve never heard it like this.

Furious. He’s furious. That’s when I realize I have never seen him mad before.

Frustrated, yes. Cantankerous, definitely. But never mad.

I frown, then wince as it worsens my headache.

Is he mad at me?

---