17. Layla
LAYLA
I’m tired of him.
Of the stupid commentary and the way he calls me baby. How he thinks it’s appropriate and golden boy of him to approach me, drunk off his ass, like our history wasn’t as fake as his damn feelings for me.
It’s old.
And, frankly, I’m too old for this shit. So, if the news of Briggs being my husband doesn’t stop him from running his mouth and acting like we had this deep, over-the-top puppy love in high school, I’m going to break his other arm.
Fuming and in need of some space from this moron, I hang a right and disappear between two food tents before breaching a small picnic area with families eating.
I stomp through the tables, not bothering to see if I notice anyone, when I reach the band.
For the love of all…
“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen you do, Short Stop.”
Great,
Another moron.
Turning on my heels, I’m ready to give it to him. I’m prepared to tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier and leave me alone when he says something that makes all the words choke and die in my throat.
“Dance with me.”
I stand frozen, heart stilling and blood slowing as I stare up at him.
He’s in a dark gray baseball cap that’s turned backward. His green eyes are calm and full of—oh, no.
I’ve seen that look on him a hundred times.
Or I thought I did.
Admiration.
Love.
Obsession.
Not to mention, on top of all that, every woman’s fantasy. His matching t-shirt is filled out by his muscles, and he’s…perfect.
Without a doubt, absolutely perfect.
“I’m in the middle of a cooldown here,” I somehow manage to get out through gritted teeth. “Why did you follow me?”
“Did you think I was going to let Cruz do it?”
I scowl. “He didn’t follow—”
“Yes, he did.”
My face softens because what?
What kind of idiot would follow a married woman around when I pretty much told him to get freakin’ lost?
Briggs takes a step forward, and my body feels trapped and encased by him, so much so that I can’t move a muscle.
“When I said, he doesn’t get you, Layla Jean, I meant it. All of it.”
I swallow the forming lump in my throat because I don’t understand why I just can’t hate this man.
Like ever.
Never.
“Right.”
Yeah, that’s all I got.
“That all?” He raises his brows because he knows me better than that. “I was waitin’ for the you don’t own me bullshit to spew from your mouth.”
“Nah.” I inhale because I know the button to push that’ll piss him off. “You said that already when you claimed that you only married me so he couldn’t.”
He doesn’t glower.
He doesn’t even move.
Instead, he freaking shrugs.
“I did,” he returns evenly. “And any other man, for that matter. However, if you think that’s going to keep pissin’ me off, Mrs. Kerrigan, it’s worn off. Try something else.”
Fine.
“I want you to sign those papers I keep sendin’ you, and I want a divorce.”
“No can do.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you. And I’ve told you a million times, you’re mine. End of story.”
I narrow my eyes on him. “I don’t love you anymore. This marriage is just for your ego, Briggs. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less. And that skinny little blonde you were fucking—”
Now I get a reaction out of him because his hands wrap tightly around my biceps, and he squeezes until I wince.
“I fuckin’ told you this would happen. Everything would change, and I would be on every little social media influencer’s bullshit tryin’ to get views. She’s Sterling Rochester’s little sister, and he would beat my ass if I ever thought of fuckin’ her.”
Sterling Rochester is the Tennessee Tornadoes’ first baseman, and he’s insanely huge. The man looks like he should’ve been a linebacker in football, but he’s fast, and he purposely takes up most of first base when a hitter is trying to get there.
And, yeah, he looks like he could throw down with the best of them.
However, that’s not the point here.
“You fucked me in secret here for two years,” I remind Briggs. “Before I started sneakin’ away. You’re good at it.”
“Because I wanted to fuck you here, but not in secret. Furthermore, I didn’t fuck her.”
“Prove it.” His brows lift before he fishes out his phone. “What are you doing?”
“Calling Sterling.”
“For what?” He sends me an exasperated stare but continues flicking his thumb along his screen without looking. “Stop it.”
“I’m proving it.”
I push his phone down because this is ridiculous. “Enough.”
“Then tell me you believe me.”
My face skews. “No.”
His eyes cram together. “No? You wanna talk to her, instead?”
Nope.
And, honestly, I believe him.
I’m just giving him a hard time because I can and I want to. There is no trying to catch him in something; I’m just simply annoyed and being a pain in the ass.
“Can I have—”
“No,” Briggs puts out a bit tersely. “You’re my wife, Mrs. Kerrigan. And I’m not leavin’ you upset, nor am I going to pretend this isn’t a thing for you.”
“It’s not.”
“Then why are we havin’ this conversation right now, where you look like you want to throat-punch me in front of everyone?”
“Because it keeps with the illusion.”
“Of what?”
“Me not being able to stand you.”
“That’s a bald-faced lie.”
I lift my shoulders. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“You need to eat.”
“I just had a hot dog.”
“And that isn’t shit when it comes to you.” He pockets his cell phone and looks around. “If you’re not dancin’ with me—”
“I’m not—”
“Then I’m feedin’ you.”
“I have dinner with Uncle Ben.”
“Great. Then you’re gonna dance with me, Layla Jean, because I’ve been stripped of that right on our wedding day, and I know how much you like it.”
I do.
“I don’t,” I deadpan right before Briggs wraps an arm around my waist and guides me to the dance floor, where there are already dozens of couples. I drag my feet. “Briggs Kerrigan, I will punch you in the balls.”
“As long as you kiss them later then.”
He takes my hand and spins me, forcing me to focus on my feet, so I don’t fall on my ass before he’s lacing them together and pulling our joined fingers to his chest.
Then our bodies are pressed together, Brigg’s free hand splayed right above my ass as he slowly begins to rock us back and forth.
I can’t help but look up at him, and gone is his irritation from me calling him out with Sterling’s sister. He stares down at me with too much…everything.
It’s intense, it always is, but not in an uncomfortable way. It melts away any animosity or hurt I’ve felt in the last couple of years. It drags me back to us as sixteen, seventeen-year-old kids who had all the hope in the world that this would last.
This would be us forever.
When we got married, we were happy. He would fly me out to whatever city he was in, and I’d still act like a teenager sneaking away from Uncle Ben with excuses of why I wouldn’t be home.
He bought them, and I never felt guilty about it until I got back to Magnolia Ridge and Uncle Ben asked me questions.
I was going to tell him.
But then his health declined a little, and it terrified me. I felt like the news of marrying Briggs would send him into a stroke. He was all I had left, and I don’t believe I could’ve lived with myself if I were the cause of his decline.
Then there was Briggs and Cruz.
Cruz entered the MLB about two years after Briggs did, and from the first game they played against each other, it stirred up a rivalry.
One the media ate up like vultures.
Briggs started getting into fights with him. I begged him to stop. Meanwhile, Briggs began bringing up my fake relationship with Cruz and what really happened.
It’s his abandonment issues.
I knew that.
However, I got tired of repeating myself over and over again. All we did was argue and fight, and I knew it wasn’t going to work.
So, I asked for a divorce.
That sent Briggs into a few weeks of sheer rage that I’d leave him when I promised I wouldn’t. Then, the divorce papers, he’d write down all the reasons why he loved me on them, then send them back.
I went to Memphis twice myself to try and get him to agree, but we ended up…having sex while he tried to riddle my head with doubt that we were, for eternity, together.
Then he’d go back on his I-need-to-punch-Cruz-in-the-head phase or why-isn’t-he-on-the-same-page-you-two-were-fake crap.
It was exhausting, but I knew Briggs was struggling out there alone, married to a girl who kept him a secret and still has.
Until tonight.
“When you’re quiet, you scare me,” he mutters, running his thumb up and down my skin. “You’re thinkin’ of ways to evade me for the rest of the time I’m here, aren’t you?”
“How can I do that when you’ve got me in a bear-lock hold, Briggs?”
“You could cause a scene.”
“And that’s somethin’ I’ve always tried not to do.”
He’s silent for a few seconds when he mutters, “You know you just ruined this for yourself, right, Short Stop. He’s gonna tell the town.”
Yeah.
I know.
But it’s finally come to a head. No longer can he taunt Briggs. I shut down his vague stories of Cruz and me being so much more because it was the only thing he had.
Me.
Now, I took away his ammo.
“He won’t be botherin’ you anymore,” I say instead, straightening my head, and stare straight into his chest. “You can keep yourself out of trouble now.”
“I have been. You said two hits, then it’s full-on.”
“But you’ve been waiting four.” I steal another look at him. “Double the amount.”
“My girl doesn’t like me fightin’. So, I give him extra.”
“You’re going to get yourself hurt.”
Briggs huffs out a sound of arrogance. “I don’t think so, Short Stop. He swings like a bitch. You hit better than him.”
“I’ve never hit anyone.”
“You smacked me upside the head once when I told you I dyed Willowmere’s Pond red.”
“Because the whole town thought there was a dead body in there,” I yell-whisper with a scowl. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe,” he says without any remorse. “But then you laughed.”
I roll my eyes and avert my gaze, immediately wanting to stop the smile that wants to revisit that conversation. “You’re a menace.”
“Now, you sound like your Uncle Ben.”
Rude as hell.
Honestly.