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My stomach twists, and my heart beating in my ears is all I can hear when I ask, “What happened?”
Deleting the footage. I reach out and grab Lance’s wrist. “Have you deleted it yet?” I turn to face Aug, willing him to look at me. Finally he does. “Show me. Show me, Augustus, now.”
That’s fucking right. I want to see it and I don’t want what I need to be steamrolled ever again. I know Aug is likely protecting me, but I want to see it. Hell, Cohen is the reason I’m standing up for myself.
“I don’t know if he’d want you to,” Lance says softly, in the kindest tone he’s ever used with me.
“Show me,” I say, practically snarling my teeth. I need to know where Cohen went. I could give a fuck less about Pete. I don’t bother asking about him.
I follow behind Aug, in front of Lance as we go into his office, where he's holding the recorded feed hostage. He pulls his office chair out for me, and I take a seat. None of us speak as he starts up the footage. It’s silent so I turn and face him.
“Can you turn on the sound?”
The way he looks at Lance before answering makes me feel like maybe the sound being off was a last ditch effort to protect me, but whatever it is, I want to know.
“Fine,” he says, reaching down to take control of the onscreen mouse. He clicks, and noises spark up from the speakers.
Pete appears, and he’s pacing, talking shit, talking nonsense. I really don’t even consider what he’s actually saying, I merely tune him out and grow angry and tired as I watch him pace.
Maybe that’s why Cohen left. Maybe Pete showing up overwhelmed him. I can’t say I blame him. Afterall, he’s been making emotional headway in being with me. The last thing he needs is my asshole, narcissistic piece of shit ex to add stress to him.
I let out a low exhale as Pete continues to pace on screen. I can talk to Cohen, we can talk through Pete showing up. Fuck, at this point, I would get the restraining order. Especially to keep Cohen in the right headspace.
The door squeals open and I drop my eyes to the bottom of the screen.
Cohen is there, taking the steps with speed and ease, immediately standing in front of Pete.
“So you’re him, huh?” The hair on my neck and arm lifts with his pinching tone. I look at the back of Cohen’s head, wishing I could see his face, wishing we had one more angle of this to watch from.
But it’s just Cohen’s heaving back, and Pete’s stupid fucking face.
“I’m him,” Cohen says, stealing the breath from my lungs, making my head go warm and fuzzy. Nothing real has been said here, and yet, a lot has been conveyed.
I almost can’t breathe.
“You’re just a fuckin’ placeholder. You’re just someone she’s using for cum like the whore that she is,” Pete laughs, shaking his head as he spews the hateful bullshit. Once again, here he is, using the thing I want most as a fucking weapon. A tool. A device. Just using, using, using any fucking way he can.
I press a palm to my stomach, and from the side of my eye I see Lance watching, but I don’t take my eyes off the screen.
Pete reaches back, and my heart nearly stops. Because I’ve seen movies and TV shows. I know what the reach back is for, especially in the middle of a goddamn fight. He pulls a gun on Cohen, who doesn’t even move an inch. It's silent between them for a moment as my eyes fill. I know he’s okay, Aug told me as much, but for him to have to go through this for me?
I feel sick.
“If I’m a placeholder, why do you have a gun drawn on me?” Cohen steps closer to Pete, bringing the end of the gun even nearer to him, completely unafraid. The gun shakes in Pete’s hand as Cohen takes it by the barrel and brings it straight to his chest. “I’ll give you five seconds to shoot me,” he breathes. I gasp, and my hand flies over my mouth, the other still pressing deep to my aching belly. Why the fuck is Pete like this? Cohen does not deserve this shit. This trauma.
I count. I fucking count. Even though I know Cohen is okay, I count.
There is no pop or blaze at the count of five. Instead, Cohen yanks the gun from Pete and slams it across his face, forehead first. I blink at the screen, the violence unfolding in front of me making acid claw at my throat.
He stashes the gun in the back of his pants, takes Pete by the collar and strikes him with a curled fist. Pete stumbles but doesn’t fall and crashes into Cohen with his fist, connecting with his eye and the bridge of his nose. I gasp, both hands now curtaining my shocked, open mouth.
Lance appears at the back door, surveying the scene cautiously. I chance a glance at him, and he’s still studying me. I watch as Pete comes nearer, feeling confident after landing a strike.
“She only wants you to fuck her so she can get what she really wants. A baby. You’re just a fucking sperm donor.”
My lips curl at that. Cohen knows I want a baby. He knows. Because we’ve discussed the important things. Yet fear worms through me, leaving me shifting weight on my feet.
He knows, but noteverything.
