My pulse thunders as I type my response and press Send before I can change my mind.
Mina: Leave me the fuck alone, you creeps.
Galvin Doyle: Ain’t that your type lmao
Simon Bradon: U should have messaged me instead of Leo. Our boy is a little busy right now
A photo comes through.
I should look away. Turn my phone off. Or better yet, delete the app so I’ll never have to see the evidence of this night again. Then I can shove him and everything about him out of my mind, and deprive myself of any information about the man who has done nothing but occupy my thoughts for the past two months.
Still, I click on the picture they send because the dagger has already pierced my heart, so twisting it won’t make it hurt any less. I relish the pain. Let it fuel the inferno raging in me because I was stupid to think that Leo would fall into the imaginary steps I laid for him when I was living my life thinking he wasn’t aware I existed.
I know what the photo will be before it loads, but I still look because it’s a reminder that he doesn’t care about me. He never has, and never will.
Andfuck, I still want to change that. I fucking love him.Loved. Past tense, current. I don’t know.
The screen loads, and my stomach sinks at the photo of a man whose face is blocked by the head of a brunette woman. Even with my fogged-up glasses, I know with every fiber of my being that it’s Leo. If I were a mile away, I could pick him out by stature alone. I’ve memorized every tattoo on his body. The freckles on his back. The birthmark by his knee. Even the little scar on the inside of his wrist and the dot by his right ear.
It’s him.
With another woman.
She has legs for days and the shortest bedazzled dress that those kinds of guys drool over. She’s his type—the Pilates girl with a closet and vanity that will make her look better than any guy she stands beside.
His hand is on her hip. Hers is on his chest or around the back of his neck—I can’t tell. It’s intimate in a way that I’ll only experience in my dreams. If the camera were angled differently, I’m sure I’d see his lips on hers.
Why can’t that be me? Why am I the one who has to be tormented?
So much timewastedon him—onmyfucking Blake.
A sob rips from my throat. I was so stupid. He’s too busy spending time with her to realize his team is tearing me apart over a single message sent during a moment of weakness. And he’s just... he’s letting them.
My phone keeps vibrating with notifications from his teammates and other guys I don’t know. They comment on my photos and videos, drowning my feed in hate, saying things that make my skin crawl. Most only comment once or twice. ExceptJack Norton. He either likes or comments on every single post on my profile.
It’s sad that you think you could ever have a chance.
Are you more of a screamer or the silent type?
I think you owe me a good time. He’ll never look at you twice once I’m done.
You’ll never be good enough for him.
Everything Jack says makes me sick to my stomach. I have to stop myself from buckling over when a wave of nausea hits me. This is the part of the job that I hate—when men welcome themselves into a space meant for women.
Calling the cops won’t do anything. It might antagonize them, and it’ll end up hurting me more than them.
My fingers fly across the screen, blocking each person who messaged or commented. I wrestle back shuddering sobs to get rid of the evidence of their perversions before they permanently stain my soul.
My phone vibrates again.
One last message to end the night.
Leo Duval: I’m sorry.
CHAPTER TWO
Mina
