Chapter 20
RAUL
A group of four ladies approaches Scarlet. I've been dodging Olivia for weeks now, ever since she showed up at my place.
Ever since we crossed that line from casual friends to something much more… intimate.
It isn't regret that keeps me away. Not exactly. But what the hell am I supposed to say to her now?
She probably thinks the worst of me. And why wouldn't she?
I shut her out. Just like I shut everyone out. This is no different.
After she left that morning, she texted me. Twice.
I couldn't bring myself to respond. Too busy licking my wounds after letting someone see parts of me I'd never shown anyone new.
Part of me wishes she'd reach out again. Just so I'd know I meant something.
But even if she does, I can't promise I'll answer. What would I even say? That I know I'm a piece of shit who deserves to be alone? I don't want her pity. And I sure as hell am not going to beg.
I feel her stare from inside the club from time to time. But I never look over my shoulder. And if I have to glance that way for work, I keep my eyes down. Can't stomach the pained look. Or worse — the annoyed one.
So I run. Avoid. Do anything to stay safe.
Ever since my mother died, people have pitied me. Teachers, friends, their parents, even the cashier at the corner store. Everyone.
And I fucking hate it. Makes my stomach turn. Makes me feel weak. Vulnerable. Like that one thing defines me as less than a man.
I refuse to let anyone define me that way. Especially not a woman like Olivia.
No idea why I'd felt that primal urge to impress her. To make her see me as strong. Courageous.
Maybe it's just biology. The way I'm fucking drawn to her.
Who wouldn't be?
I steal a glance when she isn't looking. Her tied-up top exposing her midriff, stomach soft and perfect, tattoo creeping up her sternum, pierced belly button glinting under the lights. Like lace decorating a goddess.
Dark red hair tamed in a giant claw clip, loose tendrils framing her face. Makeup light tonight, with just some mascara to darken those eyes, a flush of blush, and tinted gloss making her lips glisten.
My mind flashes to our last night together. Her face twisted in pure bliss, body on full display as she rode me, taking every inch with a rhythm that broke me.
My cock twitches hard in my pants. I have to readjust, tucking it into my waistband before anyone notices. Can't be sporting a boner at work.
I keep checking my phone. Half hoping she'll text so I can apologize. Half praying she never will.
My internal war shatters when I hear her voice cutting through the noise.
She's yelling something at a coworker, bag slung over her shoulder. Leaving early. Makes sense. Sunday night, slow after season. Surprised they haven't sent me home too. I'm the only security on for tonight.
We lock eyes as she pushes through the front door.
No smile. Just an eye roll. Then gone.
No words. Nothing.
Fuck.
It feels like she's ripped my heart out and stomped it under her heel.
But isn't this what I wanted?
So why does it hurt like this?
How fucking twisted am I?
I stand there frozen, staring at the door she just slammed through.
The eye roll burns worse than a slap. Clean. Final. Like I'm nothing worth a second thought.
My chest tightens, breath shallow. Heart pounding like I've run a mile.
But this is what I wanted, right? Distance. Safety. No more risking the pity, the disappointment.
So why does it feel like I just lost something I can't get back?
I force myself to turn away, scanning the thinning crowd like nothing happened. Routine. Work. Anything to drown the ache.
But my mind keeps replaying it. Her midriff, the tattoo, that night. Her body under mine. The way she'd looked at me like I was more than my scars.
Now? Just a ghost who doesn't even deserve a goodbye.
Two ladies are hovering by the exit. One of them laughs, pulling me back. Harmless flirting, tipsy giggles. Easy distraction.
I nod, force a grin. "Ladies. Everything good here?"
They flutter, oblivious. Perfect.
Inside, though, the war rages on. Text her? Apologize? Or let it die quiet?
Fuck if I know.
The night drags after that. Slow Sunday blues. I check my phone every ten minutes. Nothing.
By closing time, the club's empty hum matches the hollow in my gut.
I clock out, step into the humid Miami night, and for the first time, wish I'd chased her.
When I reach my car, I pull out my phone one last time and start typing.
Hey.
I stare at the screen, heart hammering. Praying for something. Anything.
Three dots appear. She's typing.
Fuck. You.
I smirk despite myself. There's my girl.
You already did that, remember?
Oh, so you're trying too hard now?
I laugh out loud. She's not wrong.
I'm sorry.
The dots flicker. Stop. Start again. Stop. Like she's wrestling with what to say. So I keep going.
I'm sorry for everything. Olivia, I was a fucking jerk. I shouldn't have let you leave like that.
Damn right you shouldn't have. Good boy.
My cock strains against my pants. Fuck. A praise kink? Shit. Guess I'll be on my best behavior now.
Would you be up for some company tonight?
I'm already on my way. ;)
Fuck. I need to race home. Dad's not supposed to be there, but I wasn't planning on company.