Page 242 of By His Play

Since the moment I got back here on Friday night, I haven’t stepped foot outside my apartment.

I’ve ignored anyone who’s come to the door. My cell died sometime on Saturday morning, and it’s remained the same way ever since.

I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to listen to anyone. And I certainly don’t want to discover anything that’s been posted on social media.

If there are more photos of them together, I don’t know how I’m going to react.

I want to say that time has given me perspective, and I guess, it has a little. But mostly, I’m still angry.

I know we weren’t technically together, and that Effie was free to go out with anyone she wanted. But Brax? My teammate? There are a million other men in this city she could have chosen.

I push myself harder on the bike.

Other than failing to sleep, and drink, hitting the gym is the only thing I’ve done all weekend.

My muscles are screaming at me to stop. But I can’t.

Working out is the only thing I can do to stop my mind from running at a million miles a minute.

I need the relief.

Seeing as I’ve run out of food, I’ve been forced to order in. I don’t want to face even a delivery guy, but I don’t have much choice in the matter.

It’s due any minute, and I have every intention of pushing myself until the buzzer rings.

The more miles I do, the higher the chance that I might get some sleep tonight.

Every time I lie in bed and close my eyes, the only thing I can see is them. Together. Her lips on his skin.

The image is haunting me. And my own imagination is kind enough to summon up pretty vivid pictures of where it could have gone next.

Them in her apartment…rolling around in her bed…

Would he treat her like glass, or would he give her what she really craves?

The buzzer rings, dragging me back to reality with a bump.

No sooner have my feet hit the floor than my knees buckle and I go crashing to the ground, the side of my head bouncing off the treadmill beside me.

“Fuck,” I grunt, lifting my hand to rub my temple.

I groan in irritation when blood covers my skin.

Fucking brilliant.

By the time I get to the door, it’s trickling down the side of my face.

Impatiently, I jab my finger against the button to let the delivery guy up before going to get a paper towel.

“Just leave it on the side,” I shout when I hear movement at my front door.

The door slams closed, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m alone once more.

Happy that I’m not at risk of bleeding out, I throw the towel in the trash and spin around to collect my dinner.

As I look up, my heart jumps into my throat and my breath catches.

“You motherfucker,” I sneer.

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