Page 169 of Bona Fide

And that’s when it hits me.

Gray eyes.

Slightly turned up nose.

NotReagan.

Indie stares at me like I’m a stranger, shock that’s displayed with a frown.

Fuck.

“You promised…” she whispers, eyes glossing over in tears. “You said you’d never call me her again. Not after I told you I couldn’t do that anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, reaching out to caress her face, but it won’t do shit for what I did and what I don’t feel sorry for at all.

She knew I was fucked up over a woman named Reagan after I said it more than I care to count. Indie let it go until we started to fuck some more. She refused to continue if I didn’t stop calling her by another name, and since then, I’ve been okay.

Until things started to unravel again and my brain began to go haywire once more.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I concede, backing off the bed so I can clean off. But I do feel bad for just fucking her and going back to my old ways. I’m just not sorry that I still see Reagan in my head. She’s safe there, no one can take her away from me.

“I know,” Indie utters. “It’s just—” She pushes her body up by her elbows. “—that was her, wasn’t it?”

My jaw locks. “Who?”

“The woman at my opening.”

My head snaps to her. “What are you talking about?”

“Reagan Shelton, your old party planner. I Googled her afterward, everything just matched. All the broken puzzle pieces suddenly fit.”

I clear my throat, needing a moment for myself. “I’m going to go clean up real quick and grab you...something.” I escape to the bathroom, closing the door a bit so I can rest my back against the wall.

Then bang my head against the drywall.

Indie isn’t Reagan. She will never fully be what I dream about. The fantasies that I can’t drown or burn because I’d have to kill myself to make them stop. I’ve always prided myself on keeping a strong front and even stronger structure of steel. Something no one could break because I wouldn’t let anyone under my skin.

I’m losing that battle, never really got above the surface to just wipe it away and start clean. Reagan is still there, burrowed for fucking life, and I can’t dig her out.

Yanking one of the small white towels off the shelf, I run the water and wipe myself down.

When I come back into the bedroom, Indie is gone.

* * *

I don’t really considermyself fucking up anymore.

It’s more like “this is me, take it or leave it”.

My life and career, as of late, have been nothing but one screwup and bad decision after another.

So since I’m on a roll, I order another whiskey from the downstairs hotel bar and don’t text Indie to see if she’s alright.

She’s pissed, I can only say sorry so many times, and I can’t rub Reagan out of my mind or dick, so what’s the point?

Indie should and can do better than me. I’m a lost cause with no heart to give her but a cock that will and loves to fuck her. That’s the beginning and end of our relationship.

The female bartender drops off my drink onto my black napkin and leans over the bartop.

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