Page 11 of The Pretender

Tingling races up my forearms at his mention of drama and rumors. It isn’t the drama I’m scared of. I’m used to rumors. The anger is what I can’t get over.

I was played.

And that both turns me on and pisses me the fuck off.

Granted, I deserved the payback and even instigated the war between us, but that’s beside the point. The point is: one moment—one real moment—changed who I was altogether. I hate this version of myself—the version that doesn’t bed new women every night or drink and smoke the night away. This version of Sebastian Carrington is confused, vulnerable, and downright mad at the fucking world. No, not the world. Justher.

Why did she have to come into my life and make me see myself differently? Why couldn’t she have left me alone, wallowing in my own insecurities, self-deprecating until I lashed out and drowned my sorrows in moonshine?

I’ve never loved something more than I loved the prank wars I did on MyView. I was the king of clickbait, and she took it all away from me in one night.

“You know, Maverick,” I say, narrowing my eyes in the asshole’s direction. “You’ve been as much help as a crocheted condom during these interviews.”

“I offered to send Rowan—” he says, pulling out the iconic deck of cards he keeps in his back pocket, “—or anyone other than me, for that matter.” The cards make a swishing noise as he shuffles them, and it causes Brick’s shoulders to snap to attention. “It’s been two long-ass months, Sebastian. Frankly, Rowan and I are sick of babysitting your self-destructive ass. Hire Bill and move the fuck on with your life.”

I grit my teeth. “I have moved on.”

I have dammit, and I’ll prove it.

“You’re hired,” I fling at Brick rather vengefully. Fuck Maverick. I am so over her; I can taste my ratings skyrocketing. “Be here tomorrow at seven a.m. I don’t want to hear you overslept or need a water and an aspirin when you get here. I’m not a CVS or your girlfriend.” I don’t practice what I preach, obviously. “I don’t do hungover employees.”

Maverick scoffs and I add, “Anymore. I don’t do hungover employees anymore.”

I fight the urge to look back at the window.

Why does fucking with Valentina float my demented boat?

Yes, we’re enemies and I’d very much like to never speak to her again after what she did.

But yet, I sat at my window downing moonshine shots after moonshine shots while I watched her snuggle into her ratty old chair in her stupid flannel pajamas and mismatched socks.

I could see all the lies as I looked at her all peaceful and cozy. Meanwhile, I was stalking her like some loser. The drunker I became, the more ridiculous my thoughts were.

I didn’t miss her.

I didn’t care what movie she was watching.

I was fine without her.

It’s not like I won’t graduate in another year and move clear across the country. I don’t need Valentina in my life, not for views and especially not for my own entertainment.

So I removed part of the equation. If she couldn’t sit in her chair, then she couldn’t pique my interest and suck away my entire night.

Except, it didn’t quite pan out that way.

“Great. Now that we’ve found you a new friend, I’m going home.” Slowly, I pull my gaze forward and find that Maverick has stood and grabbed his phone from the sofa, texting someone—probably Ainsley.

“Gigi’s tonight?” I ask, refraining from demanding it like I want to.

He sighs a long and exaggerated breath. “Sure. I’ll meet you there at ten.”

Fucking finally. We haven’t been to Gigi’s in months.

I nod, hiding my excitement, and walk to the door, hoping Brick takes the hint and follows Maverick out. “Sounds good. Tell Ainsley I’ll answer her text later.” I take a look around my townhouse, noting the dirty clothes, I think I might have been wearing last night, laid haphazardly over the trash can. “I need to do a couple things first.”

Maverick doesn’t take the bait about Ainsley. He knows no one is stupid enough to text his girl. “Come on, Brett, I’ll show you out,” he says instead, forcing a grin from me.

He’s a really good friend, even if he is lame.

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