Page 37 of Bought and Broken

Is there a third option? Maybe things don’t have to go back to the way they were after this weekend. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe he wants things to stay like this. He could be trying to fix us the only way he knows how to. I’ll only know if I ask, but I’m afraid of the answer. Afraid of ruining any good part of him that he’ll let me have this weekend.

So, I don’t ask. I’ll give this to myself to get it out of my system. I’ll do my best to fix things with Tatum before I leave. Knowing I tried my best is all I can do, and it’ll have to be enough to get past whatever all this is. Tatum and I aren’t meant to have our happily ever after like we once thought. We can’t go back to that… he’s caused too much damage. But I can pretend for a weekend. Get it out of my system before I go. Maybe even give him the one part of me I’ve saved for so long—my virginity.

Could be fate that put us together this weekend, letting me know it was always his to take. Or maybe it’s just some weird coincidence. Either way, I don’t trust Tate enough to think he’s changed for good, but that doesn’t matter because I’m not doing this for him. I’m doing it for me. For my conscience.

If he has an ulterior motive—fine. Because I do too. I’m putting all these feelings to rest. I’ll allow myself to give into him until Sunday at midnight, when he has to drop me off. Then it’s goodbye forever.

No, there is no third option for me and Tate. There isn’t even a second one. There never was. For us, there’s only one way this can end—and it’s with us going our separate ways.

Chapter Nineteen

Tatum

I step out of the shower and grab my towel to dry off. I toss it into the laundry basket once I’m in my room, which is the only one that has an en suite bathroom. Since I don’t plan on going anywhere today, I shove on a pair of sweatpants—nothing else. I saw the way Devon was looking at me in the pool, so keeping a shirt off will benefit me. The more she ogles me, the more she’ll want me. The longer I don’t give in, the more it’ll eat her alive. It may even get to the point where she’s throwing herself at me for a change.

Just as I’m stepping out of my room, a cry echoes from downstairs. My feet are moving before I have time to wonder what the problem is.

“Devon?” I call out as I barrel down the stairs.

I find her leaning against the arm of the couch, holding her foot that’s crossed over the other thigh. Blood drips from it onto the floor, and her face is pinched with pain. She’s already hyperventilating.

Shit.

“Hold on, baby. I got you,” I say, running to the kitchen to grab a towel.

I’m at her side, moving her hand away and holding the towel below her foot to catch the blood. I already know what the issue is before I look at it.

“Did you get it out?” I ask.

She whimpers, shaking her head. Tears pool in the corners of her eyes, her cheeks already wet from the ones that slipped free.

I scoop her up and lay her down on the couch, careful to keep the towel beneath her foot. Running my hand through her hair, I say, “Breathe slowly, Devon. In and out. Slow.”

Her breaths are shaky, but I coach her through them. When she settles a little, I tell her I’m going to get the first aid kit and that I’ll be right back.

Devon is brave when it comes to a lot of things, but the sight of blood fucks her up.

If this were a week ago, I’d tell her it’s the least she deserves after whipping a glass jar of peanut butter down the stairs. What did she expect to happen? But I have to be nice to her right now, so the least I can do is help her through a panic attack.

I swear I thought I cleaned up every piece of glass, but apparently, I didn’t. I pull my phone from my pocket and let the front desk know to send someone up here in exactly one hour to clean the entire floor to ensure there is no more glass. By then, I’ll have Devon patched up and calmed down. Maybe taking a nap since these panic attacks take a lot out of her. This isn’t my first time witnessing this with her.

She’s shaking when I get downstairs, but her breathing is normal. I lift her feet and sit with her legs on my lap so I can get a good view of her foot. When I do, I realize blood soaked into the grey couch, which is going to be an issue.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

She sniffles. “N-no.”

I move the towel to get a better look. I see the glass that needs to be pulled out, which is a good thing. I should be able to handle it without having to take her to a hospital. It’s on the heel of her foot, off to the side. Hopefully that’ll help when it comes to healing and her having to walk. A cut on the bottom of your foot is never fun.

Devon whimpers again, so I run my hand up her leg.

“You’re going to be okay, Dev. Just don’t look at it, okay?”

“Okay,” she says through a slow breath.

I recall the day Dane got hit by the beer bottle at the party and Devon freaked out.

I felt like shit because I didn’t help her. I should have helped her like I’m helping her now, but I was too angry then. And I didn’t have a part to play. There was no reason to be nice to her that day. Still, seeing her like this now has me feeling guilty over leaving her to suffer then. That was shitty of me.

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