Page 82 of The Worst Pucking Deal

I look at her over the rim of the glass as I take a large sip. Relishing the burn of the alcohol, I close my eyes and savor it for a brief moment. Then I pour myself more before sitting down in the closest armchair. Silence stretches between us, twisting, growing until it feels like it’s consuming the entire room.

Where I’m using the quiet to make sense of everything, Lucia looks as though it’s making her sick. She keeps shifting, crossing one leg, patting her hair, moving the other leg, twisting her hair. She can’t sit still and if she doesn’t let go of her bottom lip, she’s sucked between her teeth, she’s going to bleed soon.

Straightening, she looks at me, trying to catch my gaze. I continue to look at the spot just above her right shoulder, so I’m aware of what she’s doing without looking directly at her. “Sawyer,” she breathes, nervously wringing her hands in front of her. “I know this looks bad, and I’m sorry. I should have told you about my marriage to Fabian. But it wasn’t real. We were never in love.”

I don’t acknowledge her words.

“He owned me,” she goes on. “I-I was his property, and he never let me forget that. He would dress me up like a doll and parade me around for parties. Then, as soon as we were alone, depending on his mood, I’d either be his pet or his whore.”

My mask almost slips as fury stirs inside me, but I catch myself and remain unmoving.

“P-please look at me,” she cries. “Don’t… please don’t do this. Don’t ignore me, Sawyer. Don’t reduce me to nothing like he did.”

Unable to ignore her heartfelt plea, I look into her green eyes. Without meaning to, I get lost in them. Noticing details I’ve been oblivious to until now. They’re like two pools of liquid jade, drawing me in with their intensity. Flecks of gold dance within the verdant expanse. Her look is so intense it feels as though she’s looking into the depths of my soul, searching for something.

“You’re not nothing,” I finally say, gravel evident in my tone.

Her shoulders sag with relief. “Thank you for saying that. I know I fucked up, but I want to make things right.”

I continue, like she didn’t speak. “You’re a liar, a manipulator, and selfish. But you’re not nothing.”

She flinches with each word I speak. “N-no… I mean yes. Fuck. You’re right. I did lie, and I did manipulate the situation between us. But it wasn’t…” She shakes her head and swallows thickly. “It’s not what you think.”

“How do you know what I think?”

“I don’t. But no matter what it is, it’s not the truth. It can’t be.”

Nodding, I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. “What do you want, Lucia?” I ask. It’s weird to use her name, but calling her bunny doesn’t feel right anymore. She’s not some scared prey.

She’s quiet for so long I give up on getting an answer and stand abruptly. “Wait,” she chokes out, reaching for me.

“I did,” I say, shaking my head. “I waited for you to tell me the truth about Fabian. I waited for you to explain yourself just now. No more.”

“But, Sy—”

“Sawyer!” I boom, hating that she flinches away from me.

As I walk over to the elevator with long strides, she follows me, rambling one excuse after the other all while begging me to stay. As I step into the elevator, she meets my gaze. Her voice trembling as she asks, “Is there anything I can do or say to make you stay?”

“You’ve already done enough,” I say, my voice as gutted as I feel. “You made me care. Made me love you.”

“I love you, too,” she cries.

“And look where that got either of us,” I scoff, just as the elevator doors close.

The look on Lucia’s face haunts me during the descent, and even as I drive to Mickey’s house on the other side of the city, it’s not the traffic I see. It’s Lucia’s grief stricken expression.

Fuck!

I rap sharply on Mickey’s door, my knuckles echoing the pounding rhythm of my heart. Mickey swings open the door, his eyes widening at the sight of me, recognizing the storm brewing behind my eyes.

“Hey, man,” Mickey says, his voice tinged with concern as he steps aside to let me in. “Come on in. What’s going on?”

I slump onto the couch, the weight of my emotions threatening to crush me. “It’s a mess, Mickey,” I mutter, frustration and anger seeping into my words. “Tom called me and Lucia into a meeting.”

“Why?”

There’s zero mirth in my forced laugh. “Oh, you know. The usual. He wanted to ask about our marriage, and then tell me Lucia was married when we got together.”

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