Page 89 of Pretend Girl (The Lucky Girls 4)

At least until I have a better plan.

Chapter 27

Blake

When I left my mom behind and came to New York, I didn’t think I could sink any lower. I felt like I betrayed her. I felt like I gave up on the one person who was always there for me.

But she refused to come with me. She refused to let me save her—to save herself. And I did what I had to do. But it still hurt like a bitch.

What I’m going through now is so much worse. Because I’m reliving the past and dealing with the present.

And the present isn’t fucking pretty, not after everything.

For starters, my company’s stock dipped so low after the article really that I was worried we would lose the company altogether. A couple of my investors pulled their funding. Some of them don’t want to be a part of a sinking ship. Some of them don’t want to be a part of a scandal.

Either way, a long time, and the taste is bitter in my mouth.

Three times during the day, I catch myself dialing Emma’s number before I clear the screen and throw my phone down in frustration. I can’t call her—our friendship is over. She doesn’t want to hear about my shit. And I’m not going to burden her with something so ridiculous. If she were here, she would tell me to stick my pride up my ass and just do it.

But she isn’t here, is she? And I remain too proud to phone her and admit to her that I was wrong, that I’m drowning now.

The only other person I might have been able to turn to with this is Rachel. But I can’t trust her. I can’t talk to her about anything, not after what she did. I know she didn’t do it on purpose. But the fact is that she did it, and now everything is ruined. No matter what her intentions were.

Anger and resentment swirled inside me all the time. I’ve become a casserole of negative emotions, trying my best to fight everything that will turn me into my father. Emma’s words keep echoing in my mind.

You’re just like him.

Fuck! I hated that she might be right. I’ll never physically hurt someone. I’d realized that about myself. But I’ve still done damage, and I never wanted to be that guy.

When I feel like I’m going to spontaneously combust, I get into sports clothes and leave my apartment. Instead of training in my gym today, I headed out to Central Park.

I put in earphones and blast music as loudly as I can in the hopes that it will drown everything out. With my hood up and running through the park, I doubt anyone will recognize me. And even if they do, they’ll you clear of me. Because they’re weary of me, now. They know about my past. What did they see when they looked at me? How many people have thought back to ways that I acted and wondered if it was because of my dad and the abuse I grew up with?

I shake off the thoughts and started running. I find it easy with them, and my legs pump, eating up the distance as I work my way through the park. I ran, faster and faster, until my legs scream at me and my chest burns as I gasp and heave to give my body enough oxygen.

Someone suddenly appears on the path in front of me and I nearly body-slam them. I sidestep just in time but lose my footing, trip, and crash down onto the path with a grunt. The concrete scrapes my cheekbone and my elbows and palms hit the ground hard.

“Fucking watch where you’re going!” I cry out.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t aware in which direction you’re running,” a female voice says. I jumped up and clear at her. I’m about to lay into her, telling her what a stupid thing it is to say, blaming me for being in my way, when I recognize her.

“Madame Dorota?” She looks as mystical as she did that night Rachel and I sat together and she said we were supposed to be a couple.

The fortune teller wears the flora of different robes with so many clashing colors it makes me dizzy. The turban around her hair doesn’t hide the corals that fall over her shoulders, and her make-up is exaggerated. She looks like she escaped from a circus or a fair.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, rubbing my aching palms against each other.

“I’m enjoying the fresh air. What are you doing here?”

“Running,” I say.

“Away?” She asks.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t have time to be cryptic. I have too much going on to play games.”

She narrowed her eyes at me before she nods. “Okay, then I won’t play games. You’re in a bad place, Blake.”

“Yeah, everyone knows that. I’m sure you read the article, too.”

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