Page 26 of Bounty
“I do like you, Effie.” At the admission, I blew out a breath. I didn’t want to give her false hope even as I fought the urge to get up and pull her back into my arms. Swear to her I’d love her forever. Fuck,wanther forever. “I just want casual flings. I don’t do anything serious.”
“You could’ve said that before you fucked me!” she yelled, angrily swiping at her eyes.
Her tears almost broke me; a goddamn headache formed. I rubbed my temples. “I didn’t think I’d have to state the fucking obvious. You and I have been friends for over a year. I’ve never once mentioned I had a woman or wanted a woman.”
For several seconds, her sniffles were the only sound in the room as she tugged on her clothes. “Whatever,” she finally muttered, gathering the rest of her belongings and storming out of the room.
The slamming door rang out like a gunshot.
Guilt rushed through me. “Fuck.”
In a romance story, I’d race after her, breathlessly whispering my undying love, vowing that no force on earth could separate us, as the sun set and painted the sky with vibrant hues. Yet, life didn’t work that way.Lifewasn’t cheesy, flowery bullshit that chicks loved. Someday, Effie would recognize that my actions, though seemingly harshnow, saved her from my fucked-up world.
First, we needed to get through the signing, when we’d be forced to play nice and be around each other all day.
How fucking lovely.
I had never been a romantic. My parents were wildly in love, but they were the exception to the rule. Cassie, Heath, and my friends’ toxic relationships were the norm. Seeing them—especially Cassie and Chad—stopped me from believing in the power of love and all that jazz. Mom and Dad sometimes gave me hope, then I’d think of my sister and her man and remind myself that Mom lucked out when she found Dad. Their love and devotion was pure and unfettered, born from genuine respect and friendship.
Mom wrote her romances based on her relationship with my father. Finding a man like Lennon Monroe who would put me on a pedestal and place me above everyone and everything would never happen. It was straight out of a fairytale—she had the wedding pictures to show the white carriage that carried her to the church and then her and Dad to their reception. She’d looked like a princess and he her knight-in-shining armor. The knight he was and had always been.
I felt so stupid. In the aftermath of my night with Slice, I realized I’d fantasized about him as not only my lover, but my prince in a cut. The man of my dreams who’d sweep me off myfeet and spend the rest of his life devoted to me. He’d appreciate my devotion to him, just as Dad adored Mom’s.
Slice’s rejection doused my dreams in cold reality and reminded me that I didn’t really believe in true love. I was just lost in the moment. Now that clarity had returned, I remembered my actual outlook. Deep respect, not love, bloomed with someone you cared about. Or learned to care about.
I believedSlicehad grown to care aboutmein the same way, but I was wrong.
Our relationship wouldn’t have been sunshine and roses, but I thought he’d give me a shot. Nothing good came easy, and couples in lasting relationships put work in. Foolishly, I believed my feelings were mutual. It crushed me at how wrong I was. I was just an easy piece of ass to him, a college girl with a raging crush and nothing more than another notch on his belt.
I was such a fucking idiot.
An angry tear leaked from my eye, and I swiped it away. Unfortunately, more quickly followed. My sniffles rang out through the elevator. I was so thankful I was alone to compose myself before I reached the hotel room. No way I could explain my emotional state to my mother; I simply didn’t have the energy.
Thankfully, when I entered the room, she was nowhere to be found. Relieved, I quickly removed my clothes and shoved them back into the suitcase. Once I was in the buff, I trudged to the bathroom, to wash off the sweat and the stench of sex—of Slice—clinging to me.
In the shower, I cried freely. My tears mixed with the hot water raining down on me. I didn’t regret sex with Slice; it was the best I ever had, and I doubted anyone would ever measure up to him or his bedroom skills. Yet, I beat myself over thinking he, a bad-boy biker who modeled on the side, would settle forme. He likely had a wealth of options. It wouldn’t surprise me ifthe game he played with me, he used on many other women. Get their contact info, befriend them, and then charm them into bed.
“Stupid!” Angrily, I scrubbed my skin.
I wasn’t aromantic, but I’d fallen hard for Slice. Not love. Maybe. Hopefully. Butlike. Definitely, I’d fallen in like. Though I didn’t read my mother’s books, I couldn’t help but fancy myself his heroine, a regular girl claimed by an outlaw biker who’d give her the world. Instead, he gave me a night of passion I’d never forget and promptly ended things.
“Fucking idiot,” I hissed, the insult directed at himandmyself.
As naïve as I was for thinking that Slice and I could have more between us, never once had he told me hewasn’tlooking for something serious. Stomping on the heart of your boss’s daughter certainly wasn’t the smartest move. If I was more vindictive, I might open up to my mother, just to fuck things up for him. While I was no angel, I wasn’t a raging bitch either. I wouldn’t mess with his career just because he screwed over my emotions.
No, I’d play nice at the dinner tomorrow night, and the signing the day after. At both events, I’d pretend nothing happened. I’d look through him as if he didn’t exist. I’d wear my red bandage dress he hadn’t appreciated and flirt the entire evening with as many hot guys as possible!
Fuck him!
Misery pooled inside me.
Only when my tears stopped did I exit the shower. I dried my body and hair, then wrapped the towel around myself and returned to the room. Getting my toiletry bag, I pulled out my leave-in spray and an oil mixture of rosemary, coconut, and argan oil. My curls loved it. Once I slathered every strand in the stuff, I started to French braid my hair. Halfway done with the first one was when my mother stumbled in, loudly humming amelody I didn’t recognize. She escalated to singing. My mother was many things, but an excellent singer wasn’t one of them.
“Mom?”
The singing ceased, much to the delight of my ears.
“Effie, darling?” she slurred, breaking into a smile when she spotted me on my bed. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
