Page 31 of Worth Every Moment
Beneath it, more people chipping in.
OMG she loves him.
Who is this guy?
That is love, dude.
This is like a fairytale. I’m watching a fairytale.
I can’t stop replaying this moment.
I’ve watched it 52 times already.
I replay the video, pausing it at exactly 5.5 seconds. And there it is. The moment she raises her head and looks up at me.
I stare, trying to see what they see. She does look relieved to see me. Maybe even pleased. In fact, the more I stare at her face, the more Icansee it. The longing. The adoration in her expression.
Is it really there, or am I seeing this image through the filter of some online comments? If there’s any truth to it, perhaps we can survive the argument we had last time we met. I keep scrolling.
She’s lying on the runway. No wonder she looks pleased to see him.
You’re all imagining it. I don’t see it.
That bloke just wants to get in her panties.
Everyone wants to get in Erica Lefroy’s panties.
I hit like on the last comment because the truth of it makes me snort. I add a response. ‘But no one’s allowed in. She’s mine. All mine.’
Satisfied that I’ve done my bit to claim Erica (using the online alias,SeblovesBJs, which I created when I was sixteen for just this sort of stupid commenting) I put my phone away.
But I can’t stop thinking about her, and suddenly those comments don’t seem funny anymore. My stomach roils at the thought that all those people out there really do want to ‘get in her panties’. That they want to do what I did… they want to put their mouths on her, between her legs, their fingers inside her… a sudden coil of red hot rage blisters inside me. The heat rises through my chest, my arms, and finally my fingers, which begin to pulse.
Christ, this thing with Erica has got right under my skin. If I can’t have her, I don’t want anyone else touching her. She might think I’m a joke, but this fucking isn’t one.
The door to my father’s suite opens and his PA steps out. She looks a little dishevelled.Has he been fucking her while I’ve been waiting?I wouldn’t put it past him, even sick. Bile hits the back of my throat and I swallow it down, letting it mingle with the remnants of my rage about the online commentary.
"You can see him now," she says, propping the door open for me.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and enter my father’s room.
He’s sitting in a chair by the window, a blanket covering his knees. He looks older; withered, almost. I’m shocked at the difference since I last saw him, but I make sure not to show it.
“Dad,” I say.
He looks at me, disappointment lining his eyes as he wordlessly directs me to take a seat. I settle in the chair opposite him and wait for him to speak.
“We have a problem, Sebastian.”
“Seb,” I correct.
He shakes his head dismissively. He’s always ignored my preference for the short version of my name. “Sebastian,” he repeats. “We have a problem.”
A burst of laughter pops out. “Your spaceship lost its way to the moon?” My father stares at me blankly. “Houston,” I offer. “We have—”
A shutter of fury descends over his face. “Your jokes aren’t appreciated. This is a serious matter, and you ought to take it so.”
I lean back. Dad never did like my jokes. “You haven’t told me what it is yet, so how can I take it seriously?”
