Page 18 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

As if I’ve slapped her, she jerks back and opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “Pizza’s on the counter. I’m going out.”

My feet pound against the stairs as I take them two at a time before ripping open the front door with way more force than necessary.

I gotta get out of here.

I have no clue what I’m doing. I shouldn’t have listened to Reese. I shouldn’t have bought a damn pizza or thought for one freaking second I could’ve been civil with Em or Maddie or whoever the hell she is. I shouldn’t have let myself believe we could put our past behind us. There’s too much baggage. She didn’t even do anything wrong today, and Istilllost my shit. She has a right to talk to him. I don’t own her.

You don’t own her, I remind myself.

She’s not mine. She was never mine.

But seeing her struggle with Peanut like I did earlier today? It didn’t bring me satisfaction. If anything, it tapped into my protective instincts. To take care of her. To make her happy. To make her feel safe. And none of it can’t happen.

Not with her.

Peanut, sure.

But nother.

Not when she managed to tear down my walls and screw me over. I won’t go through that shit again.

It’s easier when she hates me. When she doesn’t look at me like I hung the moon. When she doesn’t let herself be vulnerable with me. When she keeps her guard up.

And I need to make sure those walls stay in place.

Even if it kills me.

7

Maddie

“God, yes. Oh. Oh. Oh! Yes. Right there. Right there!”

The banging against the wall grows louder with each rhythmic thump as I press the pillow over my head.

This can’t be happening.

The acid swirls in my stomach, my heart matching the thumping’s cadence.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Racing to the bathroom, I fling open the door and collapse onto my knees, shoving my hair behind my shoulders as my body heaves. The porcelain is cold against my hands while drops of moisture cling to my lashes.

No. No, no, no, no.

“Yes!” the stranger screams. It’s followed by a low, familiar groan. One I know intimately because I used to be the girl who brought it to the surface.

Peanut starts crying, probably just as scarred as I am from hearing her father having sex through a very thin wall. Forcing myself to my feet, I flush the toilet and wash my hands, Peanut’s wailing growing louder and louder every second.

As I pull open the bathroom door, Milo’s squeaks open too.

“You gonna get that?” he demands as soon as our gazes meet.

“That? As in ourchild?” I seethe, praying he doesn’t notice my red-rimmed eyes.

“You have a child?” his conquest interrupts, her perky breasts and flat stomach on full display as she sidles up beside Milo. The bitch doesn’t even bother to cover herself. Which makes the entire situation worse. So much worse. Because she’s gorgeous. Flawless. Beautiful in a way I’ll never be. Not anymore. Not after carrying Peanut. Nope. I have stretch marks, a soft stomach, and breasts made for feeding my baby girl instead of turning a man on. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve never been more embarrassed or insecure in my entire life as the realization hits.

This is why I’ll never have Milo again. Because the only thing he ever wanted from me was my body, and now, it’s nothing like it was. He’ll never want me again. Not when he can have girls who look like her.

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