Chapter Seven #2
His asshole friend cackles, spraying beer onto my shoulder. "I bet with a mouth like that, you could have him taken care of and back on the fie—"
I whip around so fast I nearly spill my own drink. "Will you shut the fuck up?"
They look at me with shit-eating grins, like they're thrilled the monkey in the cage actually speaks.
The guy in the jersey leans forward, his hazel eyes dilated. "You need a volunteer to help warm that mouth up before halftime, sweetheart?"
I don't think. I just jump up, dumping the rest of my beer over his head, cup and all. "Here's something to put in your mouth, you disgusting jackass," I growl, my voice trembling with fury.
The beer splashes in a sticky arc, coating his face and jersey.
He yelps, leaping to his feet as the crowd around us erupts into oohs and jeers.
For a second, I think he's going to hit me, but he just stands there, dripping and howling with laughter, like I just made his whole damn night.
"You go, girl!" A woman across the aisle claps, cheering me on.
Her friend isn't as kind. She looks me up and down like I'm a bug she wants to squash. "Desperate slut."
The insult hits hard. I'm not sure if that's because it comes from another woman or if it's because I feel desperate. And visible. And raw as hell.
This is a disaster, way worse than I imagined it would be.
I whirl abruptly, but someone's blocking my exit. My heart pounds against my ribcage, the urge to flee beating at me like a living thing.
A man in a suit, with a press badge on a lanyard around his neck, cuts through the aisle, smiling at me.
Great. Just great.
"Miss Abrams?" he says, just loud enough for me to hear. His eyes flick between me and the guys behind me. "Can I help you get out of here?"
I know he's not really here to help me. I'm content right now, and he's a vulture. But the alternative is more humiliation, more photos, more…of whatever the last hour has been.
I let him usher me to a side corridor, away from the main crush of bodies.
"You okay?" he asks, like he actually cares and won't just use whatever I say to generate a headline.
"I'm fine."
He waits for a second, then pulls out his phone, already recording. "Can I ask what you think of the coverage around you and Mr. Hawkes?"
I knew it was coming, but I stop dead anyway. My chest is tight, my body numb. "Are you kidding me?"
He blinks, already halfway through another question. "I just want to give you a voice, Ms. Abrams. You know, before the story gets too far away from you."
I almost crack right there in the concrete corridor, surrounded by the smell of nachos and spilled beer and sweat. "The story already got away from me," I say instead of crying, hating how small and tired I sound. "It always does."
He hesitates, as if he wants to say something reassuring, but his phone is still pointed at me, the red light blinking.
I spin on my heel and walk as fast as my legs will take me, past security, past the lines of people waiting for food, all the way out to the parking lot.
Only once I'm by myself, walking past a row of locked cars, do I let the tears come.
This isn't what I want.
It isn't who I am.
I fumble for my phone to call an Uber, trying to hold it together just long enough to get home. I can fall apart there, where no one will see, and plaster it across the fucking internet for the whole world to judge.
It takes five minutes for my ride to appear. I slump in the backseat, my forehead pressed to the glass. The driver is mercifully silent. He doesn't recognize me, or maybe he just doesn't care.
Once we're heading away from the stadium, I fumble for my phone again, texting Austin.
Me: This was a mistake. We aren't going to work. I'm sorry.
Tears slip down my cheeks, blurring the words, and for the first time in my life, I think I know what heartbreak feels like.
It feels like this.
It's after midnight when someone knocks on my door hard enough to rattle it in the frame. I think about ignoring it, because I already know it's Austin. But…I owe him an explanation. I know I do.
I haul myself from the couch, stumbling toward the door to unlock it.
I barely have it open before he's barging through, breathing hard. His eyes are wild, his expression thunderous. He looks so damn good in a navy suit and tie, I want to cry all over again.
I expect him to demand answers or ask what the fuck happened.
He doesn't.
Instead, he practically tackles me, hauling me into his arms like he can't go another second without feeling me pressed against his chest.
I'm so damn weak for him, I go. I whimper, burying my face in his throat to breathe him in.
"I'm so goddamn sorry, princess," he rasps, his voice a harsh pant in my ear. "I should have put you in a box with the other wives and girlfriends, not out there with the crowd. I'm an asshole."
I peer up at him, feeling small and miserable. "You know what happened?"
His jaw clenches so hard, I'm surprised it doesn't shatter. "I saw photos. What'd they say to you?"
"Nothing that the rest of the world isn't saying.
" I know that for a fact. Somehow, they got ahold of my email address.
After reading through the first three, I just deleted the rest without even opening them.
You can only be called so many variations of desperate and pathetic and see so many dicks before you're just done.
He crooks a finger under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "What'd they say, Serena?"
"They were talking about the photos," I mutter reluctantly.
"And then one of them asked if I was going to blow you during halftime.
He offered to give me something to do with my mouth in the meantime.
Some girl called me a desperate slut. And then a photographer rescued me, only to shove his phone in my face as soon as we were alone.
I…" I blink at him. "I've never seen your face that red before. "
"I've never been this pissed before."
"I'm sorry."
His hands fall to my waist, wrapping around it like he's trying to anchor himself. "What are you sorry about? You did nothing wrong."
"I…"
"This isn't on you, baby," he murmurs, dipping his head until his lips brush mine. "This is on me."
"It's not your fault."
"Yeah, it is." He mutters a curse, inhaling a sharp breath.
"You tried to warn me from the beginning that this wasn't okay, but I was a fucking asshole.
I thought once the photos were out, it'd be fine.
Since I couldn't get rid of the photos, I thought that I could use the situation to get you to give me a chance, and everything would work out. "
"You tried to stop the photos from being released?" I ask
"Yeah, but I'm an idiot."
"You're—"
He quirks a brow, cutting me off.
"Okay, maybe you're a little bit of an idiot," I mutter, which makes him laugh.
His laugh turns into a groan. "I'm so fucking mad right now."
"I poured beer on them."
"I saw." His jaw flexes again. "You shouldn't have been in that situation."
"I wanted to go to the game."
"And now, you want to leave me."
"I…"
He tips my head back, forcing me to look at him again. "You aren't leaving me, baby."
"I almost got fired today, Austin," I whisper, my heart aching.
"And you know what? As mad as I am about it, my boss is right.
It's not okay that this is putting patient privacy at risk.
They don't deserve to be splashed across the news just because I am.
They don't deserve to wade through photographers just to be seen for whatever illness brought them to the clinic. That isn't fair to them."
He stares at me for a long moment and then exhales a breath. "Quit your job."
I blink at him, pretty sure he's lost it. "Did you take a hit to the head tonight?"
"No. I took a hit to the cock days ago. And you know what? I think it's the first time in my goddamn life that I've been thinking straight."
"Uh, not if you think I should quit my job," I say, trying to wriggle out of his arms. I might as well be trying to move a brick wall, though.
He isn't budging. "I can't just quit my job to date you.
Dating you isn't a career choice, Austin.
That's called prostitution. And I'm pretty sure it's illegal. "
"Pretty sure? How are you only pretty sure that prostitution is illegal?" He quirks a brow, smirking at me.
"I mean, escorts are a gray area I don't understand."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "I'm not asking you to be my girlfriend professionally, baby. You're an office manager with a degree in business management. In case you forgot, I run a soup kitchen. So come manage it for me. I'll pay you double what you're making now."
"You…I…" I splutter, gaping at him. "You did hit your head tonight, didn't you?"
"No," he growls, backing me up against the wall. "I told you already. You hit my cock last week, and now I'm seeing shit clearly."
"I beg to differ."
"No, you don't. You just don't want to admit that I'm a fucking genius."
"You said psycho wrong," I say sweetly.
He stares at me for a long moment and then moves all at once, hauling me up over his shoulders so fast I get dizzy.
"Austin! What the hell? Let me go!"
His hand comes down on my ass in a hard smack. "I will," he mutters, already storming down the hall. "Just as soon as you're naked and more agreeable."
"You cannot fuck me into seeing things your way!"
"Yeah? Watch me."