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“How did you—?” was all I could choke out, but what I wanted to ask was if he’d had me followed, because he’d just recounted—with terrifying accuracy—every single sexual encounter I’d had in the past seven years. It wasn’t much, just enough to shatter my self respect and heart. Every time I slept with someone, it was a way to convince myself that I was over Wes, and each time I’d compare them to him. Each time, they came up short, and I’d emotionally disconnect. I wondered if Wes knew about any of the ones who had continued to text me, who wanted more from me, but I just didn’t have it in me to give.
Wes glared, and after a few tense seconds he rasped, “The better question ishow couldyou?”
I felt like I’d been slapped.
“What do you mean? We were broken up…it had been years, Wes.”
His jaw moved like he was chewing glass, and suddenly there was a sheen to his gaze.
“You left me, Callie. You ended things withme. I was good to you, never gave you a fucking reason to leave. Yet, you moved on.”
Scoffing, I tossed my napkin down on the table.
“And what, Wes? You’re so fucking perfect that you never did?” Because fuck that, I knew he had. There was no way he’d become the leader of my father’s club without fucking someone at some point. I grew up seeing sex and nudity and learning it was just a part of life, and if anything, nothing to make a huge deal over. It wasn’t until Wes that I realized it could mean more.
Suddenly Wes was leaning so far over the table, he was practically nose to nose with me and it made it that much more intense when he ground out, “No.”
His gaze slowly moved over my face, landing on my lips as he explained.
“I never could touch anyone after you. You were my first, and fuck, if you ended up being my only…there would never be another after what we had.”
My chest was so tight it felt hard to breathe. My breath was a heavy cloud, hanging in my chest, useless and lacking any oxygen.
Tears trailed my face, and suddenly the reason I had clung so tightly to seven years ago for leaving the love of my life just didn’t seem very substantial anymore. I missed him. I loved him. It never stopped, yet the distance was a divider in our lives and had tossed us on opposite sides of the world with no way back to one another.
I stared at him, he stared back, and when our food arrived, we ate in complete silence. What could I say to him? He’d not touched another person during our time apart, and I had. Why did that make me want to throw up? Suddenly the food didn’t have taste, and I just stared at the plate, pushing the meat around in slow, pathetic strokes.
Not only was I the villain who ended us, but I was the one who moved on, too. I hated myself, and there was no cure for it, but still, the rustling in my heart echoed of betrayal from his lack of action. Why hadn’t he come after me? He never tried to reclaim me, and that spoke louder than moving on physically ever would.
Wes paid the check, and then we were on our way back to the property. We hadn’t spoken of what I’d read in the library or anything else. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up at this point. Wes had admitted why he never wanted to move on physically from me, but I believed with all my heart he’d moved on emotionally.
The sun was below the hills as Wes parked my car off to the side of his house. I wasn’t sure why I still assumed he’d take me to the cabin, but he just crawled out of the driver’s side and gathered Max up before heading toward the front door.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I needed to know what was happening. “Why am I here?”
Wes examined me from over his shoulder then unlocked his front door. I followed him inside, caging my chest in with my arms. His house was dark, save for the dwindling rays of dusk coming in through his windows.
“Grabbed all your stuff from the cabin already. Got the guest room ready.” Wes gestured to the small door under the stairs, off the living room. It was a modest room with a queen-sized bed centered with nightstands on either side. Sheer green curtains hung over closed blinds, falling to the thick carpet on the floor. It was nice, far nicer than the cabin.
“Why am I here, Wes?” I repeated my question, turning to stare at him.
Max had made himself at home in the living room, on the dog bed that had been brought over from the cabin.
Wesley pinned his hands to his hips, glaring at the floor before exhaling, and giving me those whiskey eyes. “There was a picture left inside the mailbox last night.”
My brows caved as I worked to process what he was saying.
“There was also activity around the perimeter, by the cabin…so I made a decision to pull you closer.”
There was so much he was leaving out, and there was a shuddering in my gut that told me the image had something to do with me, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.
With a dry mouth, I asked. “What was the picture of?”
Wes continued to stare at the ground for so long I wasn’t sure he was going to respond, but finally he looked up.
“Of you, when you were eighteen, after they took you. It’s you unconscious in their clubhouse…you and the president.”
My breath came out as a sob. “What the fuck does that mean?”
