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I begin to pace, then pause and stare at the screen again.
At least, she did text me, even if it was to tell me to stop sending her flowers. That’s a positive, right? My fingers tingle. I hold them poised over the screen, wanting to message her again, then stop.
This entire groveling thing is definitely a learned art. Not sure if I’m ever going to get used to it. The flowers were a start, but clearly, not enough if, at the end of a month, all I’ve gotten is one measly text message from her.
I need to up my game, but how? Should I talk to the guys for help? Fuck, that’ll only make the three of them tell me, ‘I told you so.’ Would that be so bad, if it helps me convey to her just how sorry I am? And I am. I’ll never forgive myself for how shitty I was to her. If I could go back and start all over again, I would. But I can’t. So, I’ll play the cards I was dealt. The cards I dealt myself. Which means, figuring out how to get through to her in a way that ensures she realizes I truly mean it.
Unable to work out, I walk up to my bedroom, and have a shower. As I dry myself, I touch the puckered skin on the left side of my chest. The scar’s fading, but the line across my ribcage is still an angry red. I touch it and wince. It was worth every single pain-filled moment if it saved her life. If only I could get her to give me a chance to apologize in person.
I dress, then head out to the 7A Club. I reach the lounge and order myself a club soda. I’ve just taken my seat when my phone buzzes. I answer the FaceTime call.
"King, my man." My agent’s grinning voice fills the screen.
"Sup!" I jerk my chin in his direction.
"Good news. The liquor company wants to renew the sponsorship deal and—"
"I’m not doing it."
There’s silence, then he laughs. "I don’t think I heard that clearly, you—"
"I’m. Not. Doing. It."
"Now let’s not be too hasty." He laughs. "If it’s about the money..."
"The non-profit you mentioned a while ago, are they still interested?"
"Of course, they are, but—"
"Let them know I’m happy to endorse them."
"B-but…they can’t pay you."
"You questioning me, Mullet?"
He blinks rapidly. "It’s a billion dollars. The liquor company was ready to pay you a billion and—"
"I’m not interested."
"You don’t need the positive spin the non-profit will provide for you. Your little engagement stunt did that well enough."
A slow curl of anger creeps up my chest. "That wasn’t a stunt."
"Of course, not. It was an opportunity you took to change the narrative about your public image. And it worked. It was a brilliant plan. Only, the thing with Abby is—"
"Don’t fucking talk about her," I snap.
He laughs. "You don’t have to act the jealous paramour with me. I’m sure you’ll agree that you could have done better with who you chose as your fiancée. Someone more striking, someone more glamorous, not to mention slimmer, someone—"
"You’re fired."
"What?" He gapes, then chuckles. "Good one, King. I mean, I know how much you like variety, although, of course, you’ll need to curtail your indiscretions for a while longer, until—"
"Get out of my face, you motherfucker."
His face reddens. "Now, you listen, you—"
"No, you listen. Our deal is over. Kaput. You’re no longer my agent."
