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I sit, silently reflecting on everything. My mind keeps drifting to the feeling of his lips on mine. I still can’t believe what happened between us last night. That kiss. That goddamn kiss. It was the most intense, perfect kiss I have ever had in my entire life. There’s men you kiss and feel nothing for, there’s men you kiss and feel a spark, and then there’s Bordeaux Daniels… and when he kisses you, you feel everything. Every single nerve ending is on fire for him, for his touch, his taste. I knew I wanted more but chose to hold off. I want him in the worst way, but I couldn’t let that happen on the same night everything went down with Manuel. It didn’t feel right.
Although my body was physically aching for him—and still is—from the moment I pulled away from the kiss.
I don’t know what this means. I don’t want to read into something that might not be there, but it seems like he feels it, too. Bordeaux doesn’t seem like the type of man to make up bullshit, and he was honest with me about what he sees in his future. He would give it all up for the right woman, and he said he likes me. My pulse quickens. Bordeaux Daniels likes me. A rockstar likes me. I haven’t allowed myself to even think of him as some mega star until now. He’s just been Bordeaux since I met him. But now, it all sinks in, and I’m left spinning on overdrive.
I sleep on and off, tired from our late night that turned into an early morning, and when I dream, I’m catapulted back to when I first found out that Manny cheated on me. It’s almost like a slow motion replay of that exact moment in time.
It looks perfect. I can’t do anything else to it, there’s no way. I’ve been working on this piece for weeks, perfecting lines and colors and edges. It’s as good as it will get, and I know that. Standing back just a little, I admire it, taking it all in.
I’m calling it Midnight Hour. It’s the city, lit up in the middle of the night. I’ve incorporated different textures and brush strokes to add depth and dimension. I’ve finished with just three hours to spare, and I can only pray to the gods above that I will get it to the gallery without smearing the paint everywhere. There’s not a chance in hell that it’ll dry by then.
I have to make a pit stop at the apartment to change and when I enter through the front door, I’m immediately hit with the sound of moaning.
Of a woman moaning.
Of my fiancé moaning.
Their moans cut through me like a knife.
Like someone—maybe her, maybe him, though it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things—is slicing me open and my heart, now punctured, is spewing blood in different directions out of my chest and onto the floor, and they are both just continuing as I stand here dying in the entryway.
These walls are way too thin.
Paper fucking thin.
I didn’t care when I was the one moaning behind those walls, but now that I’m the outsider inadvertently listening in, it seems rather fucked up. My chest caves with the weight of what I know is happening.
My skin warms and it’s almost as if in the ten seconds I’ve been standing in the entryway, I’ve caught some type of plague and my core is on fire with a disease that’s surely going to kill me.
Along with the heat, rage amplifies inside of me—hot lava, a spark of fury igniting in my bones and setting ablaze before I can control which way the wind takes it.
Unfortunately for these idiots—and for me—the wind leads me straight to the room I share with him, and I fling the door open with the wrath of a thousand scorned bitches. He looks at me like I’m a ghost, like I shouldn’t be here. Me. It’s almost laughable. I mean, it would be laughable if the pulsating under my skin could be controlled. If my life didn’t feel like it was being drained out of me. If I could fill my lungs with oxygen instead of pure, sadistic hate.
Suddenly the room goes blurry, and there’s a naked woman with gigantic boobs straddling my man—it’s the first thing I notice, and it makes me sick.
Of course, she has gigantic boobs.
Her blonde hair—correction, her blonde sex hair—spills down her back and her overrated blue gaze meets my dark stare. I want to look away but it’s like a goddamn car crash, for lack of a better comparison, only instead of cars, it’s our lives that have gone up in flames, all because he wanted to stick his dick in a rail-thin blonde with huge tits and blue eyes.
“What the fuck?” My voice comes to terms with the scene playing out in front of me before my brain does, before my heart does. “What the fuck, Manuel?” I scream. No, not scream. I howl. I wail. I fucking roar. The sound escaping my throat is guttural, dark, and demonic, but I don’t give a shit.
Before I can process the fact that I just turned into something straight out of The Exorcist, Manuel is up, throwing the blonde skank off his naked body, and standing in front of me.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t fucking cry, Isla. I beg myself, but it’s no use. Tears slide down my cheeks, stinging my skin. My shoulders shake uncontrollably as I get more irate the longer he stands here looking like a moron.
He speaks. How can it be that he already sounds so vastly different? That his voice sounds so distant? So far away, so much unlike the man I’m engaged to.
The man I’m engaged to.
My gaze floats down to the engagement ring on my finger that is now burning a hole into my skin. I thought I’d wear this forever. I thought I’d have to use butter to get it off one day; after menopause when I’m puffy and can’t eat anything with excess salt.
Now, I need it off. I need this symbol of betrayal as far away from me as possible.
I yank it from my finger and throw it at Manuel, who is talking to me, who is sinking down to the floor on his knees, who is pleading to me with his eyes, his dark eyes that I love. His dark eyes that I love, that fell upon another woman and decided—made the conscious choice—to bring her into our lives. To stick his dick inside her, to destroy us both.
The car comes to a stop and the jolt of the difference in movement wakes me. My chest doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing, nerves aren’t on fire. It’s a foreign feeling to be calm after waking up from a dream like that. I look over at Bordeaux, not believing everything that’s transpired in the last twenty-four hours. My eyes linger on his face, the sun hitting his skin perfectly, making him even more handsome than he usually is. It’s unfair, really, the amount of sex appeal this man has. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, his other resting on his shifter as he relaxes against the leather of the seat.
“Well, good morning again, sleepy lady.” Bordeaux glances over at me, flashing a quick smile before turning back toward the road. “I thought of a question I didn’t ask you last night. I had some thinking time while you were sleeping. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done? In your entire life.” He looks over and grabs my hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. My insides spin, the butterflies coming alive with his touch.
