Page 87 of Puck Struck
I swallow hard. "He releases everything. To the team, the media, everyone. It’ll be over. He won’t stop until he ruins me.Andyou. It’s revenge."
"So you're just going to pay him?"
"I can't pay him. I just told you I don't have the money."
"I do."
The words hit me like a wet glove to the face. "What?"
"I said I have the money. I can cover it."
"Absolutely fucking not." I stalk out of the bathroom and grab my boxer briefs before pulling them on, my dick completely deflated at this point. "I'm not letting you paymy blackmailer."
"Why not? If it keeps you safe?—"
"It won't," I interrupt, holding up a hand. "Guys like James don't stop at one payment. They keep coming back. I won't let you enable that shit."
"Then what's your plan?"
I don't have one. That's the problem. I'm trapped between a past I can't escape and a future I'm too afraid to reach for.
My phone buzzes with another message, and both of us freeze as we stare at the screen.
Just saw you at the hospital today. Such a caring boyfriend. It would be a shame if something happened to such a loving family.
This time, there's a photo attached. Me and Logan walking into the medical center, Ethan in Logan's arms. Someone was there. Watching. Close enough to hurt the people I care about.
"Fuck" I whisper, scraping a hand down the front of my face.
Logan’s face morphs into stone with the kind of deadly calm that scares me more than his anger. "That's it. We're calling Mike. We're ending this."
But as I stare at the photo of us, looking like a family, like people who belong together, I can't shake the feeling that it's already too late.
James isn't just threatening my career anymore.
He's threatening the only real thing I've ever had.
And the one thing I’m petrified to lose.
TWENTY-THREE
logan
My alarm goesoff at six-thirty the next morning, not that I needed it. I've been awake for hours, lying here in my bed, replaying yesterday’s events over and over in my head. The doctor's appointment. James's texts. The way Cam looked when that photo came through. It was like someone had punched him in the fucking gut.
The photo of my house.
My house, where Ethan sleeps. Where Tessa tries to pretend everything's normal for her kid's sake.
I roll out of bed, every muscle pulled tight. My shoulder feels like someone's grinding glass between the joints, but that's nothing new. I pop three Advil, which don’t really do shit at this point, and head downstairs to the kitchen.
The strong scent of coffee wafts under my nose, and I know Tessa's up, too. She probably didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. When I walk into the kitchen, she stares out the back window, wrapped in her fuzzy pink robe nursing a mug of steaming coffee.
"Couldn't sleep either?" I ask, grabbing my own mug from the cabinet.
She shakes her head, still gazing into the backyard. "Ethan was restless. His fever came back around three."
My stomach drops. "Is he?—?"
