Page 144 of Bona Fide

? Let Down — Palisades ?

I orderedEmmy's favorite food—pasta. Not only did it have a million carbs in it, but she needed them much like I needed to erase the last year in my head. The only good thing about the past is the opportunity for revenge.

Cue in golden boy, Grant Hardison.

That stupid son of a bitch more than likely thought he was going to get off scot-free with fucking Reagan. It didn't matter that he didn't know she was mine or that he couldn't keep his mediocre dick (because unfortunately, I saw it) to himself, the game pieces were set in place. All I had to do was pull the trigger.

“What’s the special occasion?” Emmy asks me, sitting next to me on the couch of my study while we watch some dumbass reality show about fixing up houses.

Our carryout containers are in our laps, cans of Coke on each side of the end tables, and napkins on our chest like bibs because we're both exhausted, and we're going to make a mess.

“What are you talking about?”

“This is our third dinner in a row,” she claims. “And I know for a fact that you have things to read and—”

“Quit babysitting me,” I chide lightly. “I’m a grown-ass man.”

Em shoves more tortellini into her mouth. “I’m not complaining. I’m just saying—”

“Chew before you choke.”

“Don’t you know the Heimlich?”

I shake my head. "Never paid attention in Freshman gym class, was too busy checking out Jessica Flunter's ass." Emmy breaks out in a chuckle, which turns into a small choke before my hand immediately goes to her back. "I told you to chew.”

“I was," she retorts, clearing her throat. "Would've been a pity. I never showed you how to use the remote so you wouldn't have to watch this show anymore while I lay lifeless on the floor."

"You're dramatic as hell." She shrugs and goes back to eating her pasta while keeping her eyes glued to the TV screen.

We eat in silence for a few moments before a commercial comes on, snapping Em out of her trance.

"Did you do it?" There's no conviction in her voice, but I feel the frustration seeping off her body. She's tired of trying to pry me from the deep end of my mistakes and ghosts, and I'm guilty as hell for making her do it.

“Yeah,” I deadpan.

“Why?”

I let out a heavy sigh. “Why not?”

“Why do you let her still get to you? Why do you still have a copy of it?”

"Because I'm kinky like that, and I like feeling the stabbing pain in my gut to remind me, Em, that's why." I glance over at her, expecting a glare of some kind, but instead, she blankly stares at me.

You’ve lost your damn mind, that’s what reads clear as day off her face.

Honestly, can’t argue with her on that. I only let Reagan torture me some more when I let her go down on me, allowing her soft lips to wrap around my raging cock that wanted to remind her of what I tasted like. What seeped from her body to claim her like that truly meant anything at all.

It didn’t.

I can’t unsee or unhear the soft gasps that left those lips every time one of them thrust into her. Their hands all over her naked body, stroking and teasing while she writhed against them.

Her pleading and begging to let her come.

“Wade.” My body shakes as Em’s hand rocks my forearm.

“Mhm?” I squeeze my plastic fork to keep my body from trembling. I can see it when I close my eyes. When I try to think of the moment with just her and I in a dark, Mexican hotel room, in a different fucking country, and it still preys on me.

That’s when I stopped.

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