Page 107 of The Potter

Me: I’m thirty-five, not fifty. Now, where the fuck are you?

It takes a little longer for him to respond this time, and I hope that means he’s actually typing out an address and not some bullshit quip again.

Moody Teenager: Starlight Motel on 98th. You better hurry, we’re packing for the airport… then your sweet southern belle will be all mine.

Normally, I’d never let some toddler threaten me, but it’s been too fucking long since I’ve seen my girl. With Dr. Johnson’s help, I’m finally to the point that I can deal with conflict without backsliding into the land of assholism.

It hasn’t been easy.

This forgiving yourself shit is hard.

Halle was right, it’s not something you can just say and expect it to hold. Forgiving myself is a choice. On bad days. On good days. I still make a choice, telling myself I am forgiven, and I am worthy of a life of happiness. (Dr. Johnson’s words, not mine, but they work all the same.)

Me: You wouldn’t know a southern belle if she poked you in the ass. Don’t move. I’m coming.

I bark out the address to my driver and continue to drum my fingers against the window until my phone dings again.

Moody Teenager: What if she doesn’t want to see you?

Me: Too fucking bad.

Moody Teenager: Bout time. Don’t make me regret not killing you.

I don’t even know how to respond to that, so I don’t. I just close my eyes and pray it’s not too late to grovel.

Clyde’s would be considered a four-star hotel in comparison to this shithole.

“I can’t believe you let her live here.” Like a bad movie, Remington is in a plastic chair outside the motel door with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“Aww. I’m sorry it’s not up to your standards, Dr. Pussy. Let me see if I can find a fuck for you to ease your stay.” He grins, taking a hit off his cigarette and blows the smoke in my face. “Oh, that’s right. You’re not fucking staying.”

I kick the legs of his piece of shit chair and send him scrambling for balance. “You’re right, I’m not staying. I’m taking Halle and getting her out of this armpit.” I look at the door Remington is blocking. “She in there?”

“Maybe.”

Maybe I’m going to use his body to break down the door.

“She’s in the shower.”

I don’t give him time to say more, knocking the little prick out of my way, charging through the door, and locking it behind me before he can further get in my way.

“You bastard!” Remington pounds on the door, and it makes the asshole in me smile. I appreciate him looking after my girl, but she’s not his.

Halle Belle has always belonged to me.

Moving into the room, I try not to focus on the holes in the walls and the cigarette burns in the curtains. Instead, I follow the steam into the bathroom, where the door is cracked and only a shower curtain separates me from my sweet Georgia peach.

“Remington?” she calls out, probably having heard all the pounding going on outside. “Is that you?”

Pushing the door open fully, I walk into the bathroom and stand at the plastic curtain not hiding the curves of her body. There’s so much I need to say, so much I need to make right between us, but all I can do is stand there with my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“Rem—“ The curtain is yanked to the side, and Halle’s flushed face appears. “Vance?”

I blink in rapid succession. I don’t know what I was expecting, but seeing her again—whole, with the same brilliant blue eyes and southern accent—has rendered me mute.

“What are you doing here, Vance?”

What am I fucking doing here?

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