Page 94 of Breaking the Habit

And sure, once upon a time he’d wanted nudes to be leaked. But now? He didn’t want half this attention now that he had it. Maybe that was the first line he should open with when he started groveling to Riley.

“Ahhhh.” A relieved groan escaped him as a shudder of pleasure coursed through him. He braced himself against the house as he pissed, his left leg suddenly giving out. Some laughter reached him, and plenty of cameras snapped.

Fuck.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he called out over his shoulder. When he was done, he turned around and found three cameras aimed at him.

“Really?” one of the photographers called out. “Looks like you’re pissing on your ex-girlfriend’s house to us.”

Anxiety knotted his belly for the hundredth time that day, but at this point, he didn’t have any more energy to fight the misconception. He could see the headline already—MMA Fighter Pisses on Lover’s House—and all the associated shock and outrage.

But whatever. It only mattered that Riley knew he wasn’t an asshole.

That was the single priority in life right now.

Levi groaned as he sat on the cement stoop again. It had been about twenty minutes since he’d texted her last. Time to try again.

LEVI: Let me come meet you. Public place. I don’t care where it is. I’ll drive to Mars if you ask.

Levi’s chest tightened when his phone buzzed a moment later.

RILEY: Lounge 83.

Levi blinked as he read and reread her lone response. He’d been to Lounge 83 plenty of times before; it was tucked into Hollywood Hills and known for being rag mag bait. The place where celebrities of all letters of the alphabet went to be seen and reported on.

He didn’t know why she was there. But he was on his way.

Levi hobbled to his car as fast as he could, his heart in his throat. He got there in less than a half hour, a miracle of LA traffic if he’d ever seen it, and he left his car with the valet. As soon as he stepped out of his car, the photographers in waiting sprang to life. Flashes popped, shutters snapping, questions zipping through the air.

“You here to celebrate your epic tie?”

“What about the next fight? When will we see you tie next?”

Levi ground his teeth against the snark. They were goading him—probably hoping for his temper to flare and then, bam, drama. That’s what had gotten him the time he smashed that photographer’s camera. Levi had fallen for the trap.

But he wasn’t going to fall for it this time. He pushed past the paps and took the stairs two at a time up to the elegant black doors. The bouncer arched a brow, looking him up and down.

“I’m an MMA fighter,” Levi explained, and they ushered him in a moment later. At least he’d thought to put on black shorts and a black button-down. To at leasttryto blend in with the rest of the world. Low, sultry electronica music filled the space. Levi headed straight for the bar, which was set against a mirrored backdrop and lots of well-groomed bartenders.

Riley stood out to him immediately. Hunched over at the bar. A drink between her hands. Looking as pitiful as he’d ever seen her.

He eased into the open spot at her side. When she noticed him, she jerked upright. He leaned against the bar, mere inches between them. He didn’t know where to begin.

“You look fuckingawful,” she said, drunken slur in full force.

“Thanks. I just had the worst fight of my career. But you look amazing as always.”

“This was a bad idea,” she moaned into her hands.

“Riley. It’s time to talk to me.”

“No. There will be no talking,” she spat.

“Then why did you tell me where you were?”

She swung to face him, and he caught a whiff of the alcohol coming off her. Her chocolate eyes, normally so clear and decisive, looked murky and unfocused. The black strap of her bra showed on her shoulder as the lacy shirt shifted. She scrunched up her nose and narrowed her eyes, looking like a petulant teen.

Riley was shitfaced.

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