Chapter 15
TEXTUALLY ACTIVE
NOLAN
Rishi texts me.
You. Me. Beer. Bad decisions. Let’s go.
You had me at beer. Lost me at bad decisions.
C’mon. We’ll call it “networking with benefits.”
Pretty sure I’ve already exceeded my weekly limit on both.
I’m sprawled across the couch, one leg over the armrest, the other stretched out, heel anchored to the coffee table like I’ve got nowhere else to be and nothing else to feel.
TV’s on. Some voice narrates deep-sea horrors, creatures with translucent skin and rows of teeth meant to tear through silence. It’s white noise. Background hum to an emotional tornado I’ve dressed up as relaxation.
Earlier today, I attempted to plot my comeback from the Rorie Adams storm, in which she stole the room, and made off with my deal like it was her divine right. And looked damn good doing it too.
What’s worse than losing Asher’s attention?
Wanting her.
And wanting to undo that zipper on her fire-breathing confidence and see what’s underneath.
So, to distract myself from the truth throbbing between my legs, I scroll. Mindless, numbing.
Until karma shows up in the form of Chloe and Jackson, filtered to perfection. Her smile is syrupy, head tipped into his chest. His hand stakes a claim low on her back, thumb resting just shy of skin. Golden hour renders their betrayal beautiful. Marketable.
The caption reads: Sunshine & Jax: unstoppable together.
I grit my teeth.
Forgot to block her. Rookie move.
I tap through her stories, not because I care. Because I’m human. Because curiosity’s a parasite and I’m the willing host.
Last night—a bar. She’s laughing into her glass. Jackson watches her like he’s discovered gravity and decided to orbit.
Guess I know where he disappeared to after I threw him out of Asher’s penthouse.
Figures. Chloe never did like loose ends. She just cuts them.
She looks happy. Not the brittle, fake kind. Actual joy. That part cuts deeper than the cheating ever did. It’s not that I want her back. It’s the illusion. The version of Chloe I built in my head. The one who never existed outside of my hopes.
I toss my phone onto the cushion, stare at the ceiling like it might offer a new perspective.
This apartment is too still. The silence here creeps in through the cracks. Dismantles. Unpacks. Reminds me I was stupid enough to love someone who never actually saw me.
I don’t miss Chloe.
I miss believing she did.
I press a palm to my face, exhaling slow, then shut off the TV.
See, guys don’t melt down to sad indie soundtracks and tubs of ice cream.
We bench press it.
Bury it under bourbon.
Fuck it away.
Or we distract ourselves so hard it nearly becomes religion.
That’s the male strategy. Sort it into categories, label the pain, file it, and stack it behind our pride.
Me? I’ve tried them all.
Yes, I’m counting Rorie Adams. I’ve mentally fucked her more times than I can count in the last few days.
I don’t want to want her.
But I do.
I want her on my lap, my mouth, my hand, everywhere. When she’s tearing into me with those sharp-as-hell words and looking like sin in stilettos, I crumble.
And fuck, it’s been too long since I’ve tasted anything that fucking delicious.
But she’s not a one-night detour.
Rorie Adams is a woman you memorize in phases. Slow. Intentional. She’s not for the careless or the cowards.
Which makes this complicated.
Because I’m still bleeding from Chloe in ways I haven’t stitched shut. Still bristling at the idea of letting anyone close enough to bruise me again. And Rorie? She wouldn’t bruise. She’d brand.
Her type of fire makes you beg to burn.
I’m not ready for her.
But that hasn’t stopped the wanting.
I drag myself off the couch and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, chugging half like it might douse whatever hell is trying to light up inside me again.
It doesn’t work.
I’m horny as hell, lonelier than I care to admit, and I miss the weight of a woman against me. Heat and curves and breath that isn’t mine. Something solid. Human.
I need a distraction.
The best kind.
I tap my screen.
Textually Frustrated.
Thumbing through our texts, a smirk curls up my mouth. I don’t know what we are. Friends. Something else. It doesn’t matter. It’s honest. It’s light. And for now, it’s enough.
I need a distraction.
Bad day?
It’s a woman.
Tell me everything. I’ve got popcorn and questionable morals.
She’s smart. Competitive. Brilliant. And hot in this slow-burn, totally-ruin-your-life way.
Also, I’m fairly certain she wants to bury me alive.
So naturally you’re into her.
Of course. But she’s deemed us enemies.
Spicy.
She hates me. Like… with her whole soul.
Mmm. A classic. Go on.
She’s also sexy as hell.
I can’t stop thinking about how she might taste.
Hold up.
Back up.
Did you say taste?
…
Are we talking metaphorically tasted? Or have her thighs on your shoulders and your tongue halfway to heaven taste?
Let’s just say she’s been on my mind.
Okay wow.
I’m gonna need a minute.
You’re supposed to be talking me off the ledge, giving me a reason to NOT knock on her door and make her hate me a little less.
You’re the one that opened the gates of horny hell. Give me a second to process.
Tell me I’m an idiot. That she’s off-limits. That I need to walk away.
You’re an idiot.
She’s off-limits.
You need to walk away.
But you won’t.
No.
No. I won’t.