Chapter 23
twenty-three
. . .
Wick
“What the fuck?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
They sprang apart like startled rabbits, their lips swollen, hair mussed. Meghan’s face flushed guiltily as she scrambled off Marco’s lap, but he just leaned back against the cushions, looking infuriatingly nonchalant.
I stood in the doorway, my briefcase dangling forgotten from my hand. Something hot and ugly clawed its way up my throat. I recognized it all too well.
Betrayal.
Possessiveness.
Rage.
The apartment was quiet when I shouldered open the door, a bouquet of roses in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other. Today marked one month since I’d proposed to Beth, and I’d left the office early to celebrate with her. I’d been over the moon when she said yes. The last few weeks had been spent happily planning our future of wedded bliss.
But the apartment wasn’t just quiet — it was too quiet. Beth’s keys were in the dish by the door, her coat hung on the rack. She was definitely home.
I made my way down the hall, something leaden settling in my stomach. That’s when I heard it. A low, breathy moan. Then a rhythmic thumping.
I threw open the bedroom door and what I saw hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut. In that moment, all the air seemed to vanish from the room, leaving me gasping for breath.
My fiancée, the woman I had loved since we were awkward teenagers, was naked and writhing on top of another man. In our fucking bed, the one we had picked out together, the one where we had whispered promises of forever.
Her lean body was intertwined with his, her hips undulating in an all too familiar rhythm as she rode him with abandon.
A strangled sound tore from my throat and Beth’s eyes flew open, landing on me. They widened in shock, then guilt, but it was too late. The roses and champagne slipped from my nerveless fingers, a mockery of the romantic evening I had planned.
“Wick! I can explain...”
But there was no explaining this away. No pretty lies could erase the ugly truth before me. My pain quickly morphed into rage, and then, just as quickly, into numb disbelief. I turned on my heel and walked out, deaf to Beth’s pleas and cries, to her fumbling attempts at explanation or apology.
I walked and walked, no destination in mind, just an animalistic need to escape. I walked until my feet bled and my heart scabbed over .
That day fucked me up good. I lost something I didn’t even know I had until it was gone. The ability to trust people. The dumb-ass notion that love conquers all and everything works out in the end.
I swore I’d never let myself get played again. Never hand someone my heart and my balls on a silver platter so they could chop them to pieces without a second thought. From then on, I kept my hookups surface-level. Anything to avoid the gutting sting of betrayal.
Until Meghan and Marco made me dare to believe this time could be different.
Fucking joke’s on me.
Meghan approached, hand over her heart, voice soft and soothing. “Wick, talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I recoiled from her touch. How could I explain the horrible sense of déjà vu that slammed into me like a freight train when I walked into the penthouse?
Marco stood up from the couch, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were approaching a wounded animal. “Wick, cucciolo, I thought we were all good with this.”
I tossed my briefcase onto a nearby chair and turned my back to them. “Yeah, well, clearly I’m not as evolved as you two. I’m just a fucking caveman who can’t handle seeing his girl with another guy.”
Meghan laid a tentative hand on my arm. “Wick, please. Don’t shut us out.” I let her fingertips graze the tense muscles of my forearm. She stepped in front of me and searched my eyes, trying to understand the source of my foul mood. Her brow knitted as the pieces fell into place. She glanced back at Marco, who watched us with confusion and worry etched on his annoyingly handsome face.
“Wick,” she asked. “Is this about Beth?”
I sucked in a sharp breath, the air hissing through my teeth. Of course she would remember, would see right through me to the festering wound that refused to heal.
“Who the hell is Beth?” Marco asked.
Meghan shot him a look that screamed ‘not now.’ Then she turned back to me, her eyes filled with a knowing compassion that brought a golf ball sized lump to my throat. “Wick, I know you’ve been hurt before. Badly. And what you walked in on...I get how that must have felt like a betrayal after what happened,” she said, squeezing my arm. “But this is different. Marco and I would never intentionally hurt you.”
I wanted to believe her. I did. But the memories were too raw, the scars too fresh. I shook my head, biting the inside of my cheek. “You can’t promise me that.”
“Yes. I can,” Meghan said. “We would not do that to you. And I’m not about to let you just walk away from this.”
I searched her face for any hint of bullshit but found only fierce sincerity in those striking blue eyes of hers.
“What do you need from us right now? What can we do?” she asked.
I shook my head, the anger leeching out of me like poison from a wound. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just...I need a minute. To process, to get my head on straight.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”
She stretched up on her toes and placed a soft kiss on my jaw, the soft pads of her fingers trailing down my chest as she lowered back down. Marco stood unnaturally still behind her, looking hurt and confused.
“We’ll be here, Wick,” Meghan said. “We’re not going anywhere.”