“Bex, please. Go. I’ll handle the floor.”
An image of Aaron holding a drink tray, weaving between tables in the Regency Room in his dark gray, custom Tom Ford suit, has me laughing nervously. “Really?”
He straightens the front of his suit coat and gives the slightest shake of his head. “Well, not me specifically, but—”
“Bye, brother. You’re done; it’s my turn now.”
Aaron mumbles a goodbye to us as Jessica whirls me back down the hallway. In a matter of fifteen minutes, it feels like my entire world has experienced an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime type of whiplash. Taking a deep breath, I say a quick prayer that Jessica can be the miracle worker she claims.
After all, I want to impressmy manon his big night.
Chapter 25
Corey
Nervously, I smooth out the fabric on my custom Tom Ford suit before tugging slightly at the matching tie. I’m out of my comfort zone here, in more ways than one. The suit is a lavender yarn dyed mikado—whatever the fuck that means. It’s not a color I’m used to wearing at all, much less for formal occasions. All I know is that Aaron’s sister Jessica arranged for Bridget to pick it up somewhere in Beverly Hills yesterday. I was given strict instruction to wear this suit and pick up Bex on my way to theawards show.
My phone rests on the empty seat next to me in the limo and, though I haven’t heard a notification, I check the screen for any messages from Bex.
Nothing. My gaze catches on my phone wallpaper for a moment. It’s a picture that Britney managed to take of us at the hockey game, completely candid, which makes the picture that much more beautiful to me. I was standing behind Bex, my arms draped over her shoulders, her hands holding mine against her chest. My lips were in her hair, a smirk on my face as well as hers.
That night had been perfect.
And I haven’t heard from Bex in four days. Four full days since the discussion that exposed me as the liar I have been. Four full days where Bex occupied my thoughts, from the moment I woke up, through my day, and as I fitfully tried to sleep. She made constant appearances in my dreams, as well, but it was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands; she was always on the peripheral and never within my grasp.
Four full days that I punished myself at the gym for a distraction. Even though “Edgelord” filming had technically wrapped, and Trevor’s contractual obligation to train me was completed, he still let me loose in his gym. I think he could tell I needed some sort of release, and I thanked him profusely for the bonus time in his gym.
Unlocking my phone, I tap on the messages app, anyway. Maybe I like this kind of pain, though I never pegged myself for being a masochist. My conversation thread with Bex over the last four days is completely one-sided.
I only messaged her “I’m so sorry” once. When she didn’t respond to that, I kept the messages short. I sent them at timed intervals that were a product of my overthinking the entire situation. I asked her how her daywas, if she’d been out with the girls, how the kids at the youth center are doing.
Fuck, yesterday, I texted her a picture of the sunset from my balcony in California and said, “Wanted to share this with the only person in my life more beautiful than this view.” I don’t blame her for not responding to that one. Hell, I’m turning into a goddamn emotional mess.
When Jessica sent word for me to pick up this specific suit yesterday, my heart soared. Aaron had mentioned that Jessica and Bex went off on a little adventure a few days ago. This had to mean she was coming, right? And with the instruction to “pick Bex up on the way to the awards,” she’s clearly decided to go with me… Right?
The limo slows to a stop, and I glance out at the multi-level white stucco apartment building where Bex lives with her friends. It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve never been inside, so I don’t even know which unit they live in.
The driver opens the door and I slide out onto the hot sidewalk. Vegas is experiencing a record-setting late spring heatwave, and within seconds, I feel sweat gathering at the small of my back and along my brows.
Tapping Bex’s contact, I offer up a prayer and tap “call.”
It rings. And rings. And rings.
A dull tone, then Bex’s melodic voice chirps, “Hey, it’s Bex! I clearly am too busy to answer your call right now, so—”
Scowling, I end the call and stare up at the apartment building, as if it can offer me answers on Bex’s whereabouts.
“Sir?” The driver leans against the limo. “What should we do?”
“Give me a minute,” I growl.
“Perhaps you’d like to wait in the—”
“I said give me a fucking minute. Please,” I grit out as politely as possible, but everything hurts right now. My ego, my pride. My goddamnheart is shattered. I was so certain yesterday when Bridget picked up this suit with the instructions to pick up Bex. So certain that I allowed myself a kernel of hope that had the audacity to simply grow and grow with every hour.
I fucked up. We had barely begun, andwenever would be, because of me.
Each insufferable second of waiting in the heat is what I deserve. Tapping “call,” I hold the phone to my ear one last time. When the dull tone beeps, I angrily tap “end” and contemplate throwing the damn phone onto the pavement.
