Page 84 of Burn With Me

“Nothing about this clubisnormal. Wouldn’t you agree? If I had issues with our arrangement, I’d end it. However, I quite like our Friday and Saturday evenings.”

“Yeah, when you show up.”

There’s a beat of silence between us before I turn and bury my face against his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m being awful tonight.”

Wrapping his arms around me again, he says, “I told you it was okay. You need a punching bag? I’m happy to be that for you. But it still remains that I think you should hear him out. Promise me you’ll think about it?”

He holds me for what seems like an hour, but in reality, I know it’s only a handful of minutes. I’ve already been debating letting Jackson defend himself. In the last five days, he’s had flowers delivered to almost every place I’ve been and has been calling non-stop. I listened to the voicemails he left as soon as they went through to my phone. They’re all the same.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Please forgive me.”

“I promise it wasn’t what it looked like. Please, just let me explain.”

“I miss you.”

It isn’t fair. Because despite the fucking picture and all of the articles—not to mention the paparazzi hanging around outside The Bryant trying to get photos of me and comments on what happened—I still have feelings for him.

I hate that it’s true, but I do.

“Yeah, okay,” I finally mumble into his chest. “I’ll think about it.”

Sighing, I turn in bed to see the bright white numbers on my alarm clock reading three in the morning. Since I got home from the club, the stranger’s words have been replaying in my mind.

My heart and head are at war—one wanting to never speak to Jackson again, the other wanting to call him and give him a chance to explain. Another fifteen minutes pass by as I stare blankly at the clock, watching as the numbers change. As it becomes three sixteen, I reach for my phone and pull up my text conversation with him.

Typing a message out quickly, my finger hovers over the send button for multiple seconds before I finally press down on my screen, telling myself that if it doesn’t send on the firsttry—it’s been giving me issues since I dropped it in the water—then I’ll delete the message.

It goes through.

Are you up?

Barely a minute passes before he responds. My heart leaps into my throat at our first communication in a week.

For you, yes.

It’s all he says. I wait for a moment, thinking he’ll follow it up with something else. Maybe ahow are you?OrI miss you.But nearly five minutes go by without another message.

Can we talk?

Do you want to come here? Should I come to The Bryant? Or do you just want to call?

Nibbling on my thumbnail, I debate what option to choose. If I go there, I can leave whenever I want, but if he comes here, it won’t be that easy. This deserves more than a phone call, though.

I can come there.

I’ll send Robert now.

I’ll take a cab.

Okay.

It shocks me that he doesn’t put up more of a fight. Then again, why would he? I’ve ignored him for a week. Trying not to dwell on it, I slip out of bed and into my walk-in closet topull on the jeans I wore earlier with a plain, long-sleeved black shirt.

The cab ride feels like it takes forever. Lights are still glowing from multiple bars and businesses that are still open. The city that never sleeps is still vibrant and bustling as the cab slowly inches me block by block toward a truth I’m not sure I’m ready to hear.

I rehearse my speech a million times in my head throughout the drive and on my way up to Jackson’s penthouse. But the second the elevator doors open, my mind goes blank, and my heart drops from my throat to my stomach.

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