I’m sure I’m quite the sight. Shirtless in just my jeans, dirty, blood on my face, red marks on various areas of my skin, and who knows if I’ve started swelling yet.
“Are you okay, Zep?” Bernie shouts.
“I’m good, kiddo.”
“That’s debatable,” Dorian mutters under his breath.
I look up at him and smirk. “I got all the girls watching me. What do you got?”
“The girl you love.”
He has me there. He sure does have that. “I suppose you do.”
“I get that she was yours first, but she said yes when I asked her to marry me, Zep.”
His tone change makes me feel guilty for the first time. “I love her, Dor. Never fucking stopped.”
“I know you do, but she’s not yours. Not anymore.”
“She’ll always be mine.”
“I need you to let her go. She won’t leave you behind until you make her. Please, man, let me have her. All of her.”
I understand his plea. Hell, I want the same fucking thing. The difference is that she wants to give him a future with her. She just wants to climb into my bed every few weeks to find satisfaction.
“I’m ready,” Chanel says.
Taking her bag, Dorian puts it in her trunk, and she gives me a sad look. Or maybe it’s pity.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“It’s not your concern, is it?” Standing, I walk to the door, inspecting the damage. “Drive safe.”
“Let’s go, Chanel,” Dorian calls.
I glance back and hate how she walks up to him, cups his face, and gives him a passionate kiss. More passionate than she gave me the entire night we spent wrapped up in each other.
“Bet she blows him,” I mutter, trying to shut the door as best I can.
The hardware store doesn’t open for another hour, so it’ll have to do until then. It’ll give me enough time to think about what Dorian said. I have to be the one to turn her away if we’re ever going to end this.
But do I want to?
And can I really do it?
Chapter Nine
Zeppelin
Ifinish fixing the front door and sit on the porch. It’s hot today, and it’s weird when water hits my tongue as I take a drink. Alcohol has been my beverage of choice for more than a month now.
“Hey, Zep,” Bernie calls. Looking both ways, she crosses the street and stands in front of me. “Fixing your door?”
“Just finished,” I say and offer her the second bottle of water I grabbed.
Her mother would have a fit if she knew we were talking. After school, I find myself sitting outside, waiting for Bernie to get home from school. We just sit and chat.
