Page 134 of Bona Fide

? #icanteven —The Neighborhood feat. French Montana ?

Reagan must thinkshe’s higher than God if she believes that my eyes can’t reach her with Mila in between us.

The only thing it does do is keep me from seeing her squirm for most the night.

But it doesn’t keep me from wanting to throttle her.

I still don’t know who sent me the email of her fucking Jed, but it honestly doesn’t matter at this point. The extent of the matter is that she’s still doing it. That it wasn’t a one-time thing where she wanted to rip my heart out purposely and let me bleed for the rest of my life but the beginning or continuation of them.

She’s still allowing him to touch her body. To know what it feels like to sink his child-size dick inside her. To learn what she likes, doesn’t like, how she sounds—the goddamn list goes on.

Reagan thought that moving from her home would make it, what, harder for me to find her? Like New York is so big and crowded that I can’t find the one little ant that has been a pain in my ass since she made her own porn video.

You know that saying, keep your friends close but your enemies closer? What are you supposed to do with your ex-lover that still holds a piece of you? Drinking only temporarily fixes the problem. Smoking isn’t very becoming of a president when walking around smelling like weed and cigarettes all day. Fucking—well—doesn’t help when your new fling looks almost identical.

So, I went with plan B.

Mila is someone I know I can trust because of the Mayor Montgomery bullshit. And since Demi likes to keep tabs on all my shit, Mila was perfect to report back to me on any moves Reagan might be planning.

Her schedule was clear to do Chase’s wedding that his previous planner was fired from—cough—and I decided to fight my demons head-on.

Starting with her.

So I told Chase to use her. Like actually demanded that he did. I needed her in my space again, well aware that it wouldn’t be a pleasant meeting nor would it stop my heart from skipping and attempting to flee my chest.

But I’m not without retribution, and I want her to sit front row so that she doesn’t miss the show I’m about to play out in front of her.

She wanted to know me for who I was, now she’s going to see me for who I am.

Layla and Chase only invited the maid of honor and another groomsman to dinner, keeping it somewhat light. That might have worked if it wasn’t for the emerging past that hangs over Reagan’s and my head.

The dinner is actually fantastic, grilled shrimp with roasted serrano chili sauce, bacon, and smoked mashed banana. The rigatoni with sea scallops and crabmeat was to die for. And the chocolate tart with pineapple and coconut—I might just buy this resort and live out the rest of my life in it.

With Reagan on her knees at my fucking mercy.

That paints a prettier picture in my head than the ones that have been hovering there over this past year.

“I hear business is good,” I convey over to Mila. “How are you liking New York?” Reagan’s fork clinks against her plate as I fight the urge to smile.

“I love New York,” Mila lifts. “There’s always something going on, never a dull moment to get bored. And business is always hectic but—” She looks over her shoulder at Reagan. “—I got a great boss so it’s not too much like work at all. I mean, look where I am, Mexico.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” I reply. “Maybe Reagan will make you partner one day.”

Mila shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s a lot of responsibility, and I’m not sure I’m cut out for that sort of thing.”

I perk a brow. “Seems like you’re good at a lot of things.”

Like working for both of us.

She swallows with a nod and goes back to eating her dessert while I wave down the waiter. I reorder drinks for the table before Reagan leans over to whisper something in Mila’s ear and excuses herself.

She’s not coming back to whatever bullshit line she just told Mila. I’ve been mindlessly talking about dumb shit this whole dinner and purposely pissing her off with anything I could think of. She’s had more than enough servings of me tonight.

“How are things really going in New York?” I ask again, finishing off my whiskey.

“She’s still the same,” she conveys. “Nothing has changed much.”

“Has she made any friends?” Mila adjusts herself in her chair, which already answers my question.

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