Page 2 of Lucky 14

No. I shake my head at the intrusive thought. No, she has an appointment, and I’m being crazy.

I should check.

I pinch my shoulderblades together and let out a breath. I shouldn’t check. I’m better than that. It’s wrong.

I drop the spatula on the counter and move to the office, where I pull out my laptop. Typing in the passcode—Poppy’s birthday—I move to my file titled Tax Documents. Inside is a document where I’ve been keeping notes. Notes every time Poppy does something a bit off.

Things have really ramped up in the last few weeks. And by things, I mean bad things. She couldn’t be more apathetic toward me if she tried. At this point, I feel like I’m begging for her to look at me with anything other than hurried disinterest.

But she wanted me to fuck her this morning. So that’s good, right?

Poppy and I met through a dating app. She was actually there to unicorn for a couple, but ended up finding me. She introduced me to the swinging world, where I shared her with others, and sometimes she shared others with me. Her favorite was when I’d get a boyfriend and make it seem like we’re passionately in love. But when we get home, she ignores me and is always on her phone looking for the next person. While I’ll do anything for her, I always wonder if I’m not enough.

Scanning the notes makes me sweat, and yet, I’m cold, goosebumps running over my bare chest. There are too many things on here.

I’m good with pattern recognition. Specifically, recognizing when people are going to leave me.

Suddenly, the smell of the sausage makes me sick.

No. Poppy’s not allowed to leave me. Poppy is my girl. I may share her, but she’s still mine at the end of the day. It’s my bed she finds comfort in and my arms she turns to. I’ll do anything to make my woman happy if it means I get to keep her.

I stand up, rubbing my arms, trying to get warm.

I should check the app—aka the tracker I put on her phone without her realizing. What is initially disgust with myself morphs into urgency. I have to check it. There are too many odd things. Too many times that Poppy didn’t say goodnight to me or dropped my hand after a few seconds of holding it. Last week, she even told me she didn’t want to go to my foster parents’ birthday event.

I open the app.

I’ve always had a possessive streak. Some call it obsessive. I call it loving. Love means I’ll do anything for you. Hold you when you’re down. Feed you when you’re hungry. Support you when you’re afraid.

Why in the fuck would anyone want to run from that?

My girl’s location shows on the map. She’s downtown in an area with a bunch of shops. What if she’s going out for coffee or something?

My mouth dries out, and for a second, all I can do is stare at her profile picture, which I set as a heart with a knife through it.

Coffee. With someone else.

Nope. Hot anger makes me bare my teeth. How dare she? How fucking dare she? That familiar temper rolls over me in a hot wave, and I dart to get my shoes on.

I won’t stand by while this happens. I’m known to be loving, and I’m known to have a hair-trigger temper. Everyone knows not to piss me off.

I’m downtown before I realize what happened. All I can do is stare at Poppy’s dot on the map. When I roll up, I see her car parked along the street in a line of business. A line of businesses and a…therapy office?

I blink at the sign. Hartford Therapy Services.

No. Something isn’t adding up.

I park right across the street. It’s not busy, so I can see into the office pretty well. It looks like there’s a receptionist. It’s…a man.

A hot man.

What the absolute fuck? I stare at him through the car window and the glass front door. Oh yeah, he’s definitely hot. He has dark hair that’s longer on the top, dark eyes, nice cheekbones, and a trim beard. He looks like one of those guys who the girls drooled all over in school. Like one of the guys who’d get all the attention at the swingers’ club.

Fucking asshole.

Wait. I scan the waiting room, but don’t see my girl. Where is she?

My phone chimes.