So be it.
Having a reason to despise him will make things a hell of a lot easier because right now, I can’t reconcile the mess between what my heart is screaming and what my head is trying to explain. But one thing is for sure, both are roaring mad and jointly jaded by his shitty behavior. He once told me vindictive behavior doesn’t come naturally to him.
Tonight, he made himself a liar.
“I’m going to the next one,” Tom vows as I dodge his watchful gaze in the rearview, the Dallas skyline lighting in the reflection of my passenger window.
“You should, Tom, because he’s unforgettable,” I sigh out the painful truth.
Tom’s attempt at conversation becomes background noise as a blanket of regret cloaks me. Regret now underlined by anger. A large part of me wishes I’d never flown to Seattle, never laid eyes on Easton, never raced after him out of that bar, and got into his truck. That I didn’t know the feel of his hands, the pull of his scent, the warmth that emanates from him. That I’d never got lost in his blazing kisses, or discovered the intensity of our chemistry, or felt the weight of his body on top of mine. I wish I’d never become privy to the intensity of his lovemaking, the mind-blowing feel of his thrusts and the rippling of ecstasy that follows.
That I didn’t know what it feels like to be the sole focus of a man so brilliant, so beautiful, so insightful, and so intoxicating. I hate that he tuned into me so expertly and managed to get truths about me in such a personal way that his words and behaviors with me reflect those points home so thoroughly. I hate that he’s taken so much from me already without me truly realizing it—until now—and I resent the fact that I’m the one who gave them to him.
As I pull up to the hotel feeling defeated, I decide it’s for the best. Easton did me a favor by dismissing me so cruelly. Otherwise, I might have always wondered what might have been. A small part of me wonders if alienating me was his intent, to spare me some of the heartache. Because, despite his disgusting behavior over the last six hours, he is just that type of selfless man.
I hate that I’ll never know that for sure.
All I do know is that it’s time to go home.
Poison
Taylor Grey
Natalie
Freshly showered, I glance around my hotel room and decide to bide my time by packing. With the late hour, I’ve missed every available flight home and can’t manage to secure a rental car. With nothing but time to kill, I take care folding my clothes before spotting my discarded Stetson on the table. Tears I refuse to shed threaten as I think past the hurt to the raw honesty he fed me just hours ago—of how I again refused him and rejected us.
I told him I wouldn’t change my mind. He didn’t think I could or would hold my ground.
I hate that I have, while at the same time, am glad I did because screw him for being so cavalier with my feelings because his were hurt.
Stuck in the hotel but determined to make my exit as quickly as possible, I decide to do one last search in hopes of finding a twenty-four-hour rental car company and see a missed ping from Easton to a nearby hotel.
EC: Penthouse.
He must have sent it while I was showering. I note the time stamp.
He sent the message twenty-three minutes ago. A go to hell ready on my fingertips, they hover over the screen as I continue to stare at the text. My stomach twists as the thought occurs to me that maybe the invitation is just a formality on his part. Maybe he feels obligated to host me. Either way, he can take his half-assed invitation that reads more like an order and shove it up his over-privileged ass.
I told him I would see myself home, and I will. Maybe he’ll assume I’m already bound for Austin by not replying. No part of me believes entertaining said invitation is a good idea, especially with how furious I am with him. The longer I linger in his universe, the more susceptible and vulnerable I become.
Fuck my feelings. They don’t take a back seat to my self-respect.
Annoyed with myself for letting him be the victor while painting me the villain for trying to spare our parents—us—nothing but grief and heartache, I set the phone down and continue packing. I stare at the back of the phone like the ticking time bomb it is. I have got to get the hell out of here. Even if it means switching hotels for the night, I can’t give him any more access to me.
I’m not in the wrong for doing the right thing, and he’s got no right to make me feel as though I am. He’s not thinking about anyone but himself—his wants, his desires, even if they do heavily mirror my own. Once packed, I zip up my bag as my phone rattles again with an incoming text.