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As I blow past the rows of men and women in tiny outfits, I level in on farthest booth to the right. Full of mainly women, all dancing and taking shots, my eyes dial in on a blonde skating a hand down the chest of the man beside her.
My mouth dries, stomach falling to my ass.
Even with twenty-twenty vision, from this far away, anyone would be a speck, but my vision is clear as day.
I’m watching some bitch with her hands all over my fucking boyfriend.
CHAPTER 50
JETT
Sympathy is nothing more than a hazard box full of women, good booze, and escaping reality. Right now, it’s nothing but a reminder that inside these thumping walls, extroverts put on a performance to escape the privacy of feeling hollow.
I, like many others, am one of those extroverts.
I don’t know why I felt the need to come here, but something about continuing my pity party felt better than facing my reality. I just met my fucking father, and I don’t know how to feel about it.
I’m sure my phone is blowing up—my brothers, parents, my girlfriend—everyone’s probably wondering where I am, but I let it die. I just need some time to process.
It’s been two years since I’ve stepped foot in this club, and I already want out. I shouldn’t have shown up here, I don’t process my emotions like this anymore.
Furthermore, the touch of the woman beside me feels like poison against my skin.
“I’m not interested.” I jerk my body from hers, and her lips turn upward.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of chestnut locks I know like my soul depends on it. Scooting even farther away from the woman beside me, my heart lurches, but Fia is already huffing her way toward the VIP before the rest of me can catch up.
Fuck, it’s good to see her, but the instant regret I feel by being here is consuming.
Being phony is clearly a pivotal part of my DNA. I’m bred from a man who bathes himself in deception, and while it felt easy once before to lie to any woman to get what I want, it feels like misery to do it to her.
When she meets security, Bryce, one of the main bouncers, shoots me a raised eyebrow. Responding with a tight nod, she’s up on the platform within seconds. Her face is ablaze, even in the dark.
The fury she’s carrying sizzles enough for the both of us.
I shouldn’t be here.
But I can hide how fucking thrilled I am to see her, even if I deserve the fury she’s pointing at me. I feel a sense of shame pass in front of my face, but God, I want her so bad. I’m in battle against myself. A war of who to believe, a breached quest to find who I really am.
And through it all, I still have no confusion about what I want.
“Would’ve been nice to know we were coming to the same place.” She stands directly in my vision. The perfect muscles on her beautifully crafted legs glisten under the club lights.
“Fia—" I slur just a little, feeling a lot doughier than I have in months—shit, years.
“Oh, that’s right, you would’ve had to respond to my text for me to know that.”
Her lip pokes on the inside of her cheek, while her hip juts out.
“My phone is dead,” I answer, knowing it probably sounds like a lie.
“Right.” A flicker of hurt passes across her face before she quickly replaces it. “I’ll remember that.”
“I wasn’t going to be here long,” I plead. “I just had an unexpected evening. I needed some time to think.”
“Thinking around women who think you’re single seems like an odd choice, but I guess everyone has their things.” Her words spew like a punch right to my gut. A flick of possessiveness hides within her tone, though, and that gives me hope.
“I’m nowhere close to single.”
