Page 146 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

Anger. Sadness. Disappointment.

Dis-fucking-belief.

I blink back tears because if I shed one, I’ll drown in those useless fuckers.

The phone rings again and again. I ignore it again and again.

Not yet.

Lies. Deceit. Deception.

How could they fucking do this to me?

The phone rings for the nth time in a row. I’m tempted not to answer. That way I can pretend this shitshow isn’t happening.

But it is happening.

I connect the call to a stranger. Because I realize now I don’t even know this person. This man I thought a friend. My replacement confidant.

Turns out I never needed a replacement after all.

Now? I want confirmation of the lies straight from the horse’s goddamn mouth. Or at least one of them. And I want to know why.

“You have five seconds to explain what the fuck’s been going on.”

There’s a pause. He’s surprised I answered. After spending so long trying to get through, he now has no clue what to say.

“Thank you for saving Eoin.” He sounds cautious. He doesn’t know how to react or behave. He no doubt thought I’d blow up his phone when I figured things out. I didn’t.

My silence spoke more than my words ever could.

“I almost didn’t.” I’m trying to speak calmly but it’s difficult to do when the bitter taste of betrayal laces your tongue.

“I’m sorry, Jaine.” It’s barely audible.

I laugh dryly. “You’re sorry! You’re sorry? Did you hear me, Dyl? I said, I almost didn’t. I lost concentration! If I had missed that shot, he’d be fucking dead right now,” I hiss.

“Calm down, Jaine.”

“Calm down! CALM DOWN? I received a message from you. Dylan O’Connell. From you! Just when I was about to pull the goddamn trigger.”

“I can explain.”

“You can explain.” I force a laugh. “Go on, then. You explain to me how the hell you can send a message while your hands are taped behind your back and I’m staring at you through the scope of my rifle. You explain that to me!”

I pause to catch my breath as I get tangled in their web of deceit and tossed in their ocean of goddamn lies.

I’m fucking drowning.

“How long?” My voice is quiet.

“Jaine.”

“How long have I been messaging him, Dylan A few days? A few weeks? Months? The entire time I’ve been gone? How long have I been messaging Irish?”

Silence.

Reality dawns on me.

---