Chapter 20
TWENTY
VERITY
He’s gone before I have a chance to speak. Shell-shocked, I turn in a circle and look at the beautiful apartment that is now cold, empty, and lifeless without him in it.
What just happened? How did I go from amazing sex to an argument to getting a job to being kicked out of my home and dumped by the man that I love in a single morning?
This place is lovely, but why am I here? Did I really tell Warrick that I felt like he bought me?
I think I did.
I was angry and hurt, and all of the insecure thoughts that I’ve felt since the first time we had sex blurted out onto him.
He never once suggested that he expected me to have sex with him because he was helping me.
I was the one who worried that I’d been intimate with him because I felt like I was taking advantage of him.
I was the one who worried I’d bartered my body in exchange for his kindness.
Since the moment we met, he’s been nothing but sweet and honest with me.
He told me he was attracted to me and wanted to get to know me.
He told me he loved me. He told me that once we had sex, he wouldn’t be able to let me go.
He asked me to marry him. He told me he wanted forever, a family, and a wonderful life with me.
And what did I do? I threw his generosity back in his face. I as good as told him I feel nothing but obligation to him and that I only had sex with him because he was putting a roof over my head and food in my belly.
I’m an asshole.
Walking over to the couch, I sink down into it and bury my face in my hands. It feels like only a few minutes pass, but it must be longer, because when Henry appears in the open doorway, he’s carrying my backpack in his hands.
“Can I come in?” he asks. “Warrick just dropped these off,” he says, gesturing to the backpack and an unfamiliar bag sitting on the floor at his feet.
“Sure,” I say. “Apparently I live here now.”
Picking up the bag from the floor, he carries them both inside, then sits down on the couch beside me. “Are you okay? What happened? Warrick just showed up, told me you were up here, and asked if I’d mind bringing these bags up to you so you didn’t have to see him.”
“I fucked up,” I admit.
“You fucked up?” he questions, clearly confused.
I nod. “I had a job interview this morning.”
“Okay.”
“When I told Warrick about it, he wasn’t happy. He’s worried that we’ll never get a chance to see each other if I get a job. He doesn’t want me to work, he wants to take care of me.”
“But you don’t want that? I understand. I love Anders, but I still need to work.”
“We argued.”
“That happens. But it can be jarring if it’s the first time.”
“I basically told him that I felt like he was offering me room and board in exchange for sex. I told him he was buying me,” I blurt.
Henry’s eyes go wide. “Is that how you feel?” he questions, clearly shocked.
“No,” I whimper. “After we had sex, I wondered if I was using sex as a way of feeling less like I was taking advantage of him. But that was all me, never him. He’s never made me feel like he expected me to do anything in exchange for him helping me.
But I was mad, and I just said things. I never expected him to take it so seriously.
After my interview, he drove me here. He told me he would pay my rent until I got on my feet, but that he didn’t expect anything in return and that if I wanted to pay him back, I should donate the money to a charity. Then he said he was sorry and he left.”
“Wow,” Henry says.
“What do I do?” I ask.
“Honestly, I don’t know. Do you love him?”
“Yes,” I say passionately.
“Have you told him that?”
I shake my head.
“Well, that might be a good place to start. But maybe not today.”
“But I don’t want to stay here, I want to go home,” I whimper, feeling like I want to cry and throw up all at the same time.
His eyes are sympathetic but are also filled with censure. “I don’t know what to say, Verity. You told him you felt like he was buying you, that he was basically treating you like a prostitute. I don’t know about Warrick, but if it were me, I’d need some time to process that.”
“But I didn’t mean it.”
Sighing, he rubs at his thighs. “I can’t drive, but I’m sure Parker wouldn’t mind giving you a ride home later if you want to go and see him after we finish work.”
“I can’t wait that long. I need to speak to him now,” I say, desperate to fix this. Pulling the cell he bought me from my purse, I find his number and hit call. It goes straight to voicemail. Ending it, I call back, but it goes to voicemail again.
“He’s not answering?” Henry asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Give him some time, then I really think you should talk to him. I wish I could stay with you, but I have to get back to work. I’m just downstairs if you need anything or just want some company.”
“Thanks, Henry,” I say, hating the oppressive silence that settles over me as he leaves, pulling the apartment door closed behind him.
I fucked up. I really, really fucked up, and I don’t know what to do. Will admitting my feelings for him fix this? Or is it too little, too late?
Dialing his number again, I listen for it to start ringing, but it goes straight to voicemail, the robotic voice asking me to leave a message, only making me feel worse. For a second I think about ending the call, then I start to speak.
“Hey, it’s me. I wanted to speak to you, but you’re either screening my calls or you blocked me.
I guess I’d understand either way. I really want to talk to you.
I want to come home. Can you call me back, or message me, or something, please?
I’m sorry, Warrick. I didn’t mean all those things I said, I just…
” Sighing… “I just…call me back…please.”
Ending the call, I stare down at the cell in my hand, waiting and praying and hoping for it to ring, but instead it stays silent, the screen eventually going dark.
My eyes are watery as I lift my head and look around the apartment I’m sitting in.
It’s beautiful, and three weeks ago, if someone had told me I could live here, I’d have been elated. But not now.
Now the gorgeous furniture and the thick wool rug feel lifeless and anonymous. I want to be curled into Warrick’s side on his massive couch or pressed next to him at the dining table. I want to be naked except for his shirt, waiting for him in his comfortable bed or soaking in his tub.
But I’d move into my tiny shitty tent if it meant I got to sleep by his side again. I love him. I know it’s probably too fast, and there is an element of gratefulness that he found me and helped me. But what I feel for him is so much bigger than that.
I love that when he was worried I wouldn’t eat his food, he spent hours prepping meals for me.
I love that even when he’s at work, he calls and texts just to check that I’m okay—and still there.
I love that when he found out I didn’t have a purse, he bought me one.
I love that he doesn’t particularly like hockey, but when he found out that I did, he paid for a TV subscription so I could watch it whenever I want.
I love that he takes care of me. I love that he wants to take care of me. I love him.
Oh god, I love him, and instead of telling him that, I made this fast, crazy, intense relationship into something dirty and ugly, not the miracle that it actually is.
I have fucked this up so badly, and yet instead of dumping my ass on the side of the road with my shitty tent like I deserve, he found me an apartment and arranged to pay for it until I have enough money to take care of myself.
He’s too good for me.
I don’t deserve him.
But I want him, and I have no idea how to fix this, or how to even start to make this up to him.
I need to figure out how to show him that I’m sorry, that I love him, and that I’ll do whatever it takes to make him love me again.
Staring at the cell, I wallow in my own misery and hope that he’ll call.
But the screen stays dark, and I finally decide that I can’t just sit here and do nothing.
Bringing the cell to life, I search for Montana Mountain Ink and find walking directions on how to get there.
Stepping over my bags, I ignore them and grab the keys as I leave, closing the door behind me.
The tattoo studio is only a few blocks away, but I pause outside the door, wondering if this is a good idea. I might like Octy and Knight, but they’re Warrick’s friends, and once they find out what I’ve done, they might not be interested in helping me.
“Hey, do you have an appointment?” a gorgeous woman with bright red hair and lots of tattoos asks from behind the front desk when I finally pluck up enough courage to step inside.
“No, I was actually looking for Octy, if she’s here.”
“She’s with a client right now, but she should be done in about thirty minutes. You can wait if you want,” she says.
“Is that okay?” I ask, my gaze spanning the raised platform where several people are getting tattoos, their faces a mixture of pain, excitement, and serenity.
“Sure, take a seat,” she says, motioning to the couch to the right of the desk. “Are you looking to get a tattoo?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Octy’s a…friend, and I need some advice.”
“Do you want a coffee or anything while you wait? I’m Leo, by the way,” the woman says, rising to her feet and circling the desk to offer me her hand.
“Verity,” I say, shaking her hand and trying not to stare at the stunning Amazonian woman towering over me.
“I’m six-two in these heels,” she says, like she’s expecting me to ask. “People always want to know how tall I am.”
“I’m barely five-five.”
“God, teenage me would have given anything to be five-five,” she says wistfully.
“But not now?” I question.
“God, no. I enjoy terrifying men, and they have no idea what to do with a woman who can look them at eye level,” she says, laughing lightly.