Heath gives me a skeptical look. “You going to be able to play? I need a good match.”
“Oh, it’ll be an excellent match, believe me.” It’s even harder now to keep my voice level. “I promise.”
“Okay. But fair warning: I won’t go easy on you.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to.”
We go out to the court. The sky is cloudless and beautiful, even by SoCal standards. What a fabulous day for justice.
He goes to the other side of the net and points his racket at me. “Since you’re tired, I’ll give you first serve.”
I narrow my eyes, studying his smug, confident posture, and squeeze the ball in my hand. The racket feels like an instrument of retribution.
“I’m ready!” he calls out with a smarmy grin. “Do your worst!”
Oh, I will. I toss the ball up and hit it hard. It shoots through the air, straight for him.
He doesn’t get a chance to lift his hand to block it. It hits his face with a crunch. Blood spurts from his nose. His knees bend awkwardly, and he falls on his ass.
He covers his face. “Fuck!”
Or at least I think he said that, because the word was muffled and he was slurring a bit.
I look at him dispassionately. There’s no satisfaction. I took my anger out on him, but the person I’m truly furious with is myself.
Still, Heath needs to pay for what he’s done. And Sadie will too.
But I’ll have to pay the most—because all of this is my fault.
Heath says something to me, the words too garbled to understand.
“Stop whining,” I tell him. “That’s just the first course.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Grant
I return to the locker room and shower again, feeling the urge to scrub myself clean. When I change back into my clothes and head to my car, one of the receptionists rushes toward me.
“Sir!” she says.
“Yes?” I’m impatient to get going, but this shouldn’t take long.
“What happened on the tennis court—”
“Was an accident. I’m sure Heath told you that. Sometimes, you know, the ball just goes where it wants to go.”
She looks uncertain. She has a crush on Seb and watched us play last time we were here.
“Sebastian is the ball whisperer, not me. Ask him if you like.”
“Okay.” She nods. “Sorry to bother you. I just needed to know to make a note for our incident report.”
I turn away, go to the Maybach and dump my bag and racket in the back. My phone says Aspen still hasn’t read my texts. But then, I wouldn’t either if I were her. I’m surprised she didn’t spit in my face the second she found out whom she was working for.
Fuck. I screwed up everything.Now all the terrible, snide things I said to her come rushing back. And I made her stay late at the office…come in on weekends…run at the crack of dawn…and acted like she was a gold digger because she sold the items I gave her…
Even if she was in a maybe-I-could-forgive-Grant mood after fourteen years, she wouldn’t be after what I put her through.
