I want to be Kinsley Dane, almost thirty-year-old badass who loves to dance and wear red lipstick, not Kinsley Dane, forward for the Tennessee Tornadoes with the love ’em and leave ’em persona.
Zander willdefinitelybe pissed when he finds out I did this, but that’s a problem for later.
One of Nashville’s hottest bars during the day morphs into something of a dance club at night. It’s my favorite spot if I had to choose, and tonight I’m thankful for the familiarity of it.
The bouncer lets me in with a nod and I bypass the line, weaving through people once I’m inside then heading straight for the bar.
Grabbing an open stool at the end, I order a martini and pull out my phone while I wait. I have a dozen new notifications.
All from Royce.
ROYCE: You’ve got to be kidding me
ROYCE: Open your door
ROYCE: Where the hell are you?
ROYCE: You want to end things? Fine. But you’re gonna do it to my face, Kins
ROYCE: Don’t I deserve that?
ROYCE: Baby, please—don’t do this
The last onehas my heart clenching in my chest as the bartender slides my drink in front of me. I pay for it and slide off the stool, my eye catching on the unopened voicemail icon at the bottom of my screen.
It’s stupid, but I want to know what it says even if it’s just some automated message. I snort as I walk toward the bathroom because ifthat’snotany indication on my state of mind right now, I don’t know what is.
I hate this.
I hatebeinghere.
Looking down at my outfit, I hardly feel like myself and realize a little too late I just want to go home.
Hotel.
Apartment.
It doesn’t matter; I just want to leave.
Decision made, I call up a ride share before hitting the voicemail playback.
Hey, Kinsley, it’s Scott.
I’m calling you from my new number. I kept getting all these weird messages and so I ditched that one when I moved to Florida. A private investigator reached out to me about the messages you’re getting too—I didn’t tell him about mine because…weird, you know? But I just wanted to let you know it’s not me. I was totally an ass but like, I’d never hurt you… and like there’s lots of girls here so it’s cool. Hit me up if you’re ever in Florida.
I pullthe phone away from my ear and stare at the screen.
It’s not him.
I know it’s not.
But I’d been so sure, so blinded, even though Royce had told me it wasn’t him.
It couldn’t be.
Because the reality was so much worse—the timing of the messages, where I’d been. His demeanor when I was on a date, or even seeing someone casually. How they’d increased when I was with Royce orwhen I didn’t tell anyone where I was.
My phone vibrates in my hand as footsteps sound behind me.
