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Love.
A word that holds so much depth and evokes an incredible amount of pain at just the mere thought of it. Although the pain runs deep and scarred me in ways which seem irreparable, I miss him like fucking crazy.
But that’s no reason to go back.
Not now, and not ever.
This time in my life is all about me.
And I’m going to make damn sure it stays that way.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wesley
Bang. Bang. Bang.
My eyelids drooping and leaden with sleep, snap open, violently, the loud banging against the front door waking me up.
Several door chimes sound throughout the house, each pitch equally as annoying as the one that proceeds.
Who the fuck would be here in the middle of the night? It better not be Troy, the fucker got his payment last month.
My head is spinning and out of control, and I look over to my phone. The light is harsh, and I can barely make out the numbers. Five in the morning.
There’s an irritating snore beside me. I turn over, the mattress sinking yet the movement doesn’t wake her. Felicity, Farrah’s younger sister, is sprawled out across my bed, her naked torso laying on top of the white sheets.
She still has traces of coke on her chest, and the more I looked at Felicity, the greater she disgusts me.
Don’t remember her face.
Don’t remember the way she felt beneath you.
Remember she left you for him.
And that wound is fucking closed. I made sure of it.
I grab my pistol from my nightstand, throwing on my navy robe as I make my way to the door. The banging doesn’t stop, my name being called by someone familiar. The voice resonates, but I can’t seem to connect it to a face.
Turning the lights on, the glass doors leave nothing for anonymity. It’s Flynn, standing with a large duffel bag beside him.
“What the fuck are you doing here at this hour?”
He’s out of breath, panicked, and his hair wildly messy. I haven’t seen him for months, and the last time we spoke, he told me not to ask about her. He was pissed at me, and the small piece of information he did tell me was that she’s doing really well and traveling through Europe.
I know he’s hit it big, signed up by Platinum Records and currently world-touring. Hollywood agents were desperate to sign him up. Flynn Beats—his new stage name—is killing it in his career.
“You need to clean your shit up,” he barks.
I’m stunned at his forwardness, yet confused by my ‘shit’ needing to be cleaned up.
“What are you talking about?”
He bends down, reaching behind the duffel bag, and lifts a dark carrier by the handle. I stare, close my eyes, then open them again to finally figure out it’s a baby carrier.
“She’s yours.”
There’s a baby inside. Small, wrinkly, and wrapped in a white blanket. The baby looks like some alien from outer space.
