AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Evie? Evie?” Dylan calls to me.
“What?” My fingers tremble against my thighs.
“Evie. I’m here. Where are you?” Dylan brushes his fingers against my face and neck. He takes my hands in his, pumping blood back into them. He pulls me back to present.
“Here,” I say, clinging to him – boomp-da-boomp – my heart re-starting. “I’m here, Dylan.”
“Good.” He brushes his lips against mine. He whisks dead hair off my shoulders and it falls, coming to rest on the cold, porcelain tiles. “It’s really good. You look amazing. We’ll go to the stylist the concierge recommended tomorrow. He’ll finish the job. But it’s good, I swear.”
“Really?” I want to be here with him – not in the past – not in the past with boys that I haven’t talked to in over eleven years since that horrible, shitty day. Boys who were forever scarred when a twist of fate met Karma, met a mental breakdown, met a really bad day. The perfect shitty fucking storm.
Dylan places his arm around me tenderly. “It’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous. Do you want to see?” He runs one hand through my new hair.
I don’t feel like myself. The new me is lighter. I shiver. “Okay.” I lower myself off the counter and stomp my feet on the ground. The solid ground. Three-two-one, I count silently, turn, and face the bathroom mirror.
My long hair is gone. It brushes against my neck, not even hitting my shoulders. I’m not sure I recognize me. The new Evie has big eyes and high cheekbones. The new Evie has nothing to hide behind. It’s freeing. It’s exhilarating. It’s terrifying.
“I love you,” Dylan says and pulls me tight to him.
I melt against him. I kiss his mouth. I kiss his full lips. “I love you, too.”
We make love one last time. I come twice – once with his mouth on my sex, once with his cock buried deep within me as he stimulates my clit with talented fingers. We climax moments apart from each other and collapse against each other, a tangle of sweaty limbs, passion, trust, secrets shared. Respect.
I bide my time until my beautiful player dozes. I watch him sink into a deeper sleep, waiting until he’s out cold in REM. I force myself out of bed and head to the bathroom. I startle when I see my hair in the mirror. Most of it has been tossed in the wastebasket. A few sad hunks remain on the floor.
I run a wet cloth over my body and swipe on blush and mascara. I move quietly to the bedroom and pull on clothes, jot my personal, private number on a pad of paper and leave it on the bureau next to Dylan’s phone. I take one last long look at my beautiful player.
How can I leave him? How can I do this? What is wrong with me? I don’t know. I just know I can’t stay. Something’s changed. I bow my head and offer up a silent prayer:
Thank you, God for bringing Dylan McAlister into my life. He’s been redeemed. He’s earned a second chance. He’s no longer broken. Take care of my beautiful man and You and I are good. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
I wheel my bag toward the door and see my dead hair lying in clumps on the bathroom floor. My throat tightens. I grab tissues from the countertop dispenser, rescue a few pinches, and tuck them in my purse. I carry my bag into the hallway and close the door with barely a sound.
I walk away from Dylan McAlister my heart beat-beating in my chest, doing my best not to cry because I hate crying. If I’m lucky I’ll make it out of the hotel before I explode into a million pieces.
Minutes later, I make my way through the lobby. According to the message on my phone my driver will be outside in seven minutes. I spot the obligatory Vegas wedding party and think about what Dylan said about our future. Do we have one? Is getting married ever, to anyone, even in the cards for me?
I check my phone. My driver’s running a few minutes late and I pause to take in the fantasy as Sheryl Crow’s “Leaving Las Vegas” plays in the background.
Four bridesmaids, a gaggle of twenty-somethings are wearing glittery jewelry and are dressed in fitted raspberry silk dresses. The bride is about my age and has long, shiny blond hair. She’s giggling with her friends. “Going to the chapel and we’re going to get married,” one of her pals sings off tune.
Behind them are the groomsmen wearing charcoal tuxes, spit-polished black shoes, and white shirts. They’re all handsome. One man walks with a pronounced limp.
“Dude, this is your last chance to bail,” a ruddy guy says, punching his arm.
“Fuck you, Peter.” The bride clocks him with her beaded purse and he feigns pain.
I cover a smile.
“It’s too late for me,” the man with the limp says. “My beautiful bride’s been training at the gym. Save yourself, Peter.” The crowd parts.
The groom is a little under six feet, thin, lean and athletic. His floppy black hair brushes against his white collar. He laughs and it strikes a familiar chord in me. I notice his shoulders, his jacket, his feet, and for a second I swear I can see galoshes. I shake my head. Not galoshes. Spit-polished black dress shoes.
“Oh man - I’m getting married today.” He turns in my direction, and all the air is sucked out my lungs in a mushroom cloud-sized whoosh.
Tingles blast down my spine and I break into a sweat. I know this man. I loved this man. I was in the car that ran over this man twelve years ago when he was still a boy.
This man is Wyatt Wolfe.
