“I came all the way to Paris to get you back. Do you know how much that cost me? I don’t even have enough money to pay my rent next month in L.A.—especially without a job!”
Old Kayla would have felt guilty about Dwayne’s plight.
But new Kayla’s head was still spinning with anger and outrage over what had happened with Mick—Andy—whatever his name was!
I snatched back my arm and shut down Dwayne’s guilt trip with a scathing, “I am not responsible for your poor decisions—not when we were dating and most definitely not now that we’re done. I am never taking you back, so get that dream—really that nightmare out of your head.”
At first, Dwayne blinked at me, looking like a confused 5 foot 11 child.
Then he started to cuss me out.
“Not your fault? Not your fault? It’s all your fucking fault, bitch!”
With a numb heart, I turned away and headed toward the hotel’s double set of front sliding doors.
“I’d still be on the Suns’ roster if it wasn’t for you not understanding the difference between me cheating on you for real and a publicity stunt! I had to do it—for my brand! Why the hell can’t you—what? No, stop! Get your hands off me!”
Dwayne abruptly switched from yelling after me to yelling at a broad-chested security guard when the middle-aged man blocked him from following me through the second set of doors.
“Guest only. Right this way, Monsieur!” The guard escorted Dwayne out of the hotel so smoothly that I could tell I wasn’t the first tourist in Paris who’d needed his help to ditch her trifling ex at the curb.
After that, I settled back into the room I should have been staying at all along, and I had no problem blocking the third number Dwayne had tried to reach me at in as many days.
However, my thumb hesitated over the option to delete and block the contact I’d made for Mick.
But then I reminded myself his name wasn’t Mick, it wasAndy.
Specifically, Andrew Michael Atwater—or, as PureFootball.com referred to him when they placed him right below some guy named Roy Keane on their list of7 Meanest British Footballers of All Time, “The A.M. Volcano.”
Just a little bit of research yielded a slew of articles detailing his horrible me-first attitude, his refusal to commit to any of the many celebrity women he’d been linked to throughout his soccer career, and his billion-dollar “side hobby” of making ruthless business deals when he wasn’t on the field.
The more I read, the more I understood why he’d pursued me so hard. I’d been a pawn in his latest business deal, the perfect cover story—and plaything while he negotiated what appeared to be a significant payday to defect to the Paris Triomphe team next season. That night at the VIP Lounge might have been some kind of hazing ritual, for all I knew. “The A.M. Volcano” testing his new teammates to see just how far they’d go to acquire him.
Andy—not Mick—had been using me. I erased and blocked the contact without another moment of hesitation.
Then, I put all of my energy into doing what I should’ve from the start, planning out an itinerary for my last three days in Paris—which I’d get back to after a quick run to the closest discount store to pick up enough clothes and toiletries to get me through the rest of my trip.
However, that turned out not to be necessary. The hotel manager knocked on my door a few minutes later with my two suitcases. Apparently, François had packed for me and sent everything I’d left in their penthouse suite over to my room at the Benton Budget.
Just like that, the cute little back and forth with my luggage was solved by an efficient butler—obviously following the orders from a ruthless player who didn’t need me anymore to pull off his plan.
My eyes grew hot—but no, I refused to cry.
Crying was what got me into this position in the first place.
I could just imagine Mick looking at me on that plane, vulnerable and so stupidly honest. I’d cried myself straight into his evil mind games.
“Thank you,” I said to the hotel manager, lifting my chin. “Let me just go grab my purse for a tip.”
“Ah, no, madame,” she answered. “This will not be necessary. Actually, there is something I must talk with you about…”
* * *
And that’show I ended up accepting an economy trip ticket home to L.A. on a flight leaving the next morning.
The only slightly apologetic manager had firmly explained that paparazzi and other reporters had begun to arrive at the Benton Budget.
“We do not have the personnel to handle such events here, and our normal security is not enough.”
