Page 46 of Keep Me Never
Four thousand dollars.
Four thousand fucking dollars, and they’ve already opened three bottles, there’s so many of us. That’s… I’m going to be sick.
I push off the seat, ignoring the glances my way, and charge to the back of the jet and into the small bathroom.
I drop my head, taking deep breaths as I start to sweat, my stomach literally turning. I splash water on my face, not caringthat it’s dripping and soaking into my jacket—my jacket that only cost fifty bucks at a department store last year.
My eyes close, and I shake my head, my jaw locked tight.
Twelve thousand dollars down the pipe in a few hours’ time.
Guilt crashes down on me, relentless and unforgiving, trapping my lungs and making me gasp.
I undo the top button of my shirt, pulling in a long, deep breath, only for a shaky, broken exhale to leave my lips a moment later.
My father doesn’t even make that in a month. He was supposed to retire this summer, and now he’ll have to work his ass into the ground just to survive after what my mother did to him.
Is that what happens when you are in love? You give your all to someone and eventually they stop giving back, instead taking and twisting a knife right into your gut?
Fuck.
I drop my head back, eyes catching on the sparkling light fixtures above, because of course the jet bathroom has fancy shit like that. My attention moves to the soap dispenser and napkin dispenser—also made of some sort of crystal or glass.
This is what Paige’s future could be: private jets and live shows. She deserves it.
She deserves to live out those plans she made with her dad to travel the States and visit all the theater venues. To live free and happy and without worry, with someone who has a name like Prescott, because if that isn’t the most uppity, rich-boy name I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what it is.
What the hell could I offer anyone? My bad karma? Some college credits that won’t mean shit without the degree to go with them?
A failed football dream?
A truck with over two hundred thousand miles on it?
I’ve got exactly $322 to my name, and that has to last me months.
Nothing. I’ve got fucking nothing.
But maybe that’s for the best, because love ruins lives and marriage is a death sentence.
A hard knock sounds on the door, and my eyes open.
“You good, man?” Mason’s voice reaches me. “We’re getting ready to land.”
“Yeah,” I answer, but it comes out low. Pathetically broken. “Yeah,” I try again, looking at myself in the mirror.
As quickly as I meet my own gaze, I have to look away.
Pushing out of the door, I try to slip past, but Mase blocks my path.
Worry stares back at me, his hand coming up to clamp my shoulder. “I’m here for you, brother. You know that, right?”
I nod, my throat thick, and slip past. My eyes connect with Noah’s, and he gives a small smile.
Noah, the man of all men.
The pro football player.
Ari’s fiancé.
