“You ready to pay up, sweetheart?”
My fingers curled into a fist, my nails digging into my palm. “I want to meet. Just us.”
There was silence.
Then a slow, low chuckle, the kind that always preceded something bad, something cruel.
“Now that,” he said, dragging the words out, savoring them, “sounds interesting.”
I swallowed against the lump in my throat, forced steel into my spine, ice into my voice.
“In a few days,” I said, staring at my reflection in the darkened TV screen. My face was blank, unreadable, a mask I had spent years perfecting. “After my shift.”
“Brave girl.” His voice dipped, like he was mocking me, testing me, waiting for me to fold. “You sure you don’t want to bring that baseball boyfriend of yours?”
My stomach clenched.
Brooks. He still thought Brooks was leverage.
And maybe he still was.
Not to him. To me.
I inhaled sharply, refusing to let my father hear the weakness in my breath. “This is between us,” I bit out. “You want your money? Show up alone.”
Another pause.
Then, “I’ll be seeing you real soon, Shelle.”
The line went dead. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Not for a long, long time. Then, slowly, I let the phone drop from my fingers.
I had set the trap.
Now I just had to hope I wasn’t the one who ended up in it.
22
Brooks
Music blared through the gym,the bass thrumming against my ribs, but it still wasn’t loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I pushed myself harder, increasing the incline on the treadmill, sprinting until my lungs burned and my legs felt like they might give out. Every time I considered stopping, I told myself just two more minutes. Then another two. If I kept pushing, maybe the ache in my chest would finally disappear.
My phone buzzed beside me on the treadmill. I ignored it. A second later, it buzzed again, persistent, demanding my attention. I already knew who it was. I didn’t need to look.
Michelle.
She had tried calling me five times in the past two days, sent texts I refused to read. Whatever she had to say could wait. She had made her choice, and I was making mine.
The burn in my chest spread to my arms as I increased the speed again, chasing the exhaustion that might quiet my thoughts. I had surpassed my original plan of three miles an hour ago, but stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering. Remembering meant rage.
“Brooks, settle down there, man.”
Brigham’s voice cut through the pounding music, and I barely turned my head as he walked in, towel draped around his shoulders, watching me like he knew exactly why I was here. He leaned against the machine, shaking his head. “Ain’t gonna help yourself by overdoing it.”
I ignored him and pushed harder. Four days had passed since Michelle had decided to end us, since she’d looked me in the eyes and lied. She had let me believe she was with someone else, that I had been just another guy passing through her life. I had wanted a future with her. She didn’t. That truth sat in my gut like a lead weight, and no matter how many miles I ran, I couldn’t shake it.
Another buzz from my phone. I glanced at the screen, jaw tightening when I saw her name.
Michelle: Please, just talk to me.
