Page 62 of How We End
“I know.”The time in the period break ticked away.If Cassidy asked me to run away with her tonight, I would seriously think about it.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
WYATT
November 29
I had gone over it.Hell, I had torn it open and pulled out all the pieces of what Julian and I were and spread it out.I had examined it over and over again, and in the end, what lay in front of me was the bloody mess we would become.I reminded myself of that as I opened the door to find Julian standing there.
He wore a dark suit that complemented the color of his eyes.There was a purple bruise under his left eye and a line of tiny little stitches across the bridge of his nose.At the sight of him, I pushed the mess to the side because I wanted every second of this hour.Our last hour.“I missed you,” I confessed.
“Me too.”Julian cupped my face, kissing me softly.
Why could this not be us?I loved the way he made me feel.The way he cupped my face between his hands when he kissed me.That when he pulled away, his eyes were warm and soft.I pressed my forehead to his chest, not wanting to do this.Not wanting to end this.
“What’s wrong?”He ducked to meet my gaze.
The concern I saw on his face made the tears burn my throat.Why hadn’t I met him in high school?Why couldn’t he have been selling tickets outside my parents’ bar?Or even in LA, flashing that beautiful smile.Where was he when I was ready to fall in love?When some asshole I barely remembered was breaking my heart, where had Julian been?“We can’t do this anymore.”
“Why?If it’s the whole payment?—”
“No.”I pulled away.“That’s the problem.”I walked into the living room and poured myself a shot of tequila.
“Cass.”
“It’s Wyatt,” I said before I took the shot.“My name is Wyatt Cassidy Halliday.”I poured another, hoping if I drank enough, the pain would go away.
He took the shot away from me and swallowed it down.“Okay, that still doesn’t explain what you said.”
“I’m an escort, Julian.No.”I closed my eyes.That word was too soft.And it wasn’t the truth.“I’m a whore.I get paid to have sex.”I watched him inhale my words.
“So this is about the payment.”
“No.It’s about what I do.”I hated saying those words around him.
“I know what you do.”
“Do you really?”I didn’t think people really understood what went on behind closed doors.I fucked the rich and the very powerful.I knew all their dirty little secrets because I was one of them.“I got back on Thursday.I didn’t call you because I had two clients.I had sex with two different men.Maverick because he pays my rent, and the other because that’s what I do.”I didn’t soften my words.I wanted them to cut him.He needed to know how sharp the truth was.“That weekend before I met you, I was in New York.I was there to see a man.No, I was there to fuck him.”I watched my words hit Julian.It wouldn’t help either of us to sugarcoat any of it.
“He barely spoke to me.He didn’t tell me about his childhood or ask about mine.I was there to be the woman he fucked.He didn’t care if I ate or slept.Didn’t ask how my day was.He didn’t care about me.But I still went because he paid me twenty-five thousand dollars.”I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.I got the same attention as his staff, which was less than the overpriced cars he drove.I was a thing he used.“That’s all I’m worth.”
Julian took a deep breath.“I have to fly to New York in a couple weeks.There I will have to push through the swelling and the pain in my right knee.Tape up my left wrist and five fingers because I’ve broken them or sprained them so many times they have no flexibility left.Because some man who doesn’t care if I eat or sleep pays me to do that.Then I have to slam some guy wearing the wrong colored jersey into the boards over and over because he took a little rubber puck from me.Again, because some man in a suit pays me to do that.And the best part is if I lose, I get to see the replays over and over again.I get to hear about it on podcasts and on the news.See the disappointment in the fans’ eyes and in my teammates because I let them down.Because I didn’t play better.”He poured another shot.“All because a man in a suit pays me ten million dollars a year.So cheers to being fucked by men in suits,” he said and slammed back the shot.
“It’s not the same.”
“You’re right.It’s not.Because after your weekend, you don’t need me to button your shirts or put your pieces back together when some asshole calls you washed-up.And this”—he pointed to his face—“will be minor to what I will look like come April.My knee will be so bad I can’t walk, and my left shoulder will be so stiff I’ll need you to dress me.And if we make the playoffs, there will be some weeks you’ll be lucky to see me for a few hours.And you will regret those hours.”He touched my cheek.“These feelings that I’m somehow better than you because I keep my clothes on will be gone by March.”
“They won’t, and that’s the problem.”I hated the words he spoke.
“For you it is.Not for me.”
“No, Julian.You deserve better than what I can give you.”
“No!”he yelled.
“Yes!”I yelled back.“I’m not good for you.”
“Then this is a match made in fucking heaven because if you think that I?—”
