Page 24 of Ripped

Miles blanches and drops his gaze to the floor. That’s fucking right. Be ashamed. Be very ashamed.

I drop back on my heels and suddenly the room is spinning. I grasp at Donnie to keep from falling over. His arm comes around me to hold me up and he slips the other hand between the unzipped front of my coat to flatten his palm on my chest.

“Breathe,” he orders.

I suck in a breath.

“That’s it. Again.”

I take another. The spinning room slows and finally stops. My heart is still pounding and my hands tingle with numbness. Donnie’s supporting most of my weight. My eyes prickle with tears I don’t want to shed and I desperately need to lie down and curl into a ball. I want Donnie to take me away from here. I want him to take me home—his home—and hold me until the world makes sense again.

“Are you fucking him?”

The words pierce through me like a blade in my gut. Donnie goes frighteningly still. He pushes me behind him and rounds on Miles who shrinks back against the wall.

“So what if we are? What is it to you?” He’s growling. He’s menacing. I would never have imagined sweet, caring Donnie could be so dark and threatening. It sends chills down my spine and I’m not even the one he’s speaking to.

Miles either has balls of steel or zero sense of self-preservation. I’m voting for the latter. “It’s a little fast, don’t you think? In my bed one night and in yours the next?”

What on god’s green planet did I ever see in Miles? Has he always been like this and I was dating some fantasy person I made up in my mind? Because the guy I knew wouldn’t be like this. But then, I guy I knew wouldn’t have cheated on me either. So I guess I never really knew Miles at all.

CHAPTER TWELVE

DONNIE

Miles is cowering in front of me, but there’s this arrogant obstinance in his stare. In other circumstances, I would be impressed. If we were in my spin room, I might even be proud. Right now, I’m furious.

This bitch thinks he can sleep around on Connor and then accuse him of being a slut? Not if I have anything to say about it. “That’s rich, coming from you. Exactly how many times have you dropped your pants and bent over for Wyatt’s cock?”

Miles’s face turns so red it looks like steam is going to come out of his ears and the top of his head is going to pop off. “That’s not the same thing.”

I sneer at him and give him a disgusted once-over. “You’ve got that right.”

Miles looks primed for a fight, and as satisfying as it would be to sink my fist into his face, I take several steps away from him, pushing Connor back as I go. This is quickly spiraling out of control and I don’t quite recognize myself in the middle of it all. I’m not a violent person. I’ve never thrown a punch in my entire life. I’m not about to throw away that track record on Miles of all people.

“Maybe you should step outside until we finish up,” I say to Miles. It isn’t a suggestion.

Miles swallows visibly and exits to the living room.

I turn to Connor and he’s immediately in my arms, face buried under the collar of my coat, cheek against my neck. His body chemistry is completely out of whack and he’s shaking so hard, he’s either going to bounce off the walls or cave in on himself. I rub my hands up and down his back and whisper all the soothing words.

“Shh, it’s okay, darling. I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be fine.” It takes way too long for him to come back to himself. He’s not going to be able to stay on his feet for much longer. I need to get him out of here. Now. “Do you think you can get the rest of your things?”

Connor pulls away but he keeps his hands on my chest like he needs them there to steady himself. I grip his arms, ready to catch him if his knees go out from under him.

He nods. “I think so.”

“Let’s move quickly, okay? Just the most important things, the sentimental things you can’t live without. Everything else is replaceable.”

He meets my eyes and I pour as much of my strength and resilience and determination into him as I can. I need him to hold it together for a little bit longer, then he can break into as many pieces as he wants.

We tie up the last of the trash bags in the bedroom and drag them out to the living room. Miles, the bastard, is still there, leaning against the far wall, staring daggers at us. We ignore him.

I shake out a new bag and Connor starts handing me books from the bookcase. Some of them look like textbooks from school. There are a couple coffee table books about different eras of the film industry. He’s got an impressive stack of Blu-Rays, but apparently, no machine to watch them with.

He grabs the antique-looking quilt off the back of the couch and the hoodie hanging over the arm.

“Wait, that’s Wyatt’s.” Miles pushes himself off the wall, eyes glued to the hoodie.

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