Page 79 of Enemies Off Camera
We’ve spent hours on the phone talking about surviving their mother. I listened mostly, slowly realizing I was never alone. We’ve all agreed to move forward—together.
I haven’t seen my dad yet. He’s still in critical care, and they want to limit exposure to any new germs. I hope he makes it. I really do.
“That’s excellent,” I say.
“So, we’ll talk soon?” he asks.
He always finds a reason to call—little things, big things, it doesn’t matter. I think he’s afraid of losing touch again. And honestly? I get it. I don’t want to lose this connection either.
With that, we end our call, knowing we’ll speak again sometime this weekend.
The sun dips low over the ocean, golden light flickering across my desk. I sit at my computer, absently sliding my finger across the top of the keyboard.
Here’s the thing—if I truly want to get over a man I shouldn’t have fallen for in the first place, I need to go full masochist. I have to make it hurt more.
So, I search:Jaxon Wilde + Ashley Sweet.If that’s even her real name. I’ve fully accepted her little Disney character voice, and fragility is probably an act.
It doesn’t take long to find something. There’s a video of them at a juice bar in downtown San Diego. The timestamp says it was his off-day—the very day someone from the team’s office called me and said he couldn’t make our commitment because he had prep work. We were supposed to be photographed together in Little Italy.
But here he is. With her.
"He lied," I whisper, shaking my head.
He’s been playing me all along.
I exhale what feels like every last bit of air in my lungs. I close the browser. I don’t need to see more. Ashley at the game. A secret meeting with “Rach.” A full day with Ashley. And then, an entire night with me.
His stamina is impressive. His integrity? Not so much.
“Jeez,” I mutter. “I’m going to need another gyno appointment.”
“Fuck!” I shout loud enough to miss my phone buzzing at first.
My heart jumps—until I realize it’s not Jaxon’s ringtone. I should delete that custom tone already.
I flip my phone. The name on the screen makes me groan.
“Ugh,” I grunt.
I consider sending it to voicemail. But no—I’m sick of letting men treat me like a damn ping-pong ball.
I answer. “What do you want?”
“Hey,” Blaine croons, smooth as ever, like there’s no bad blood between us.
I want to scream. But I don’t. I pull up the imaginary zipper on my big-girl panties.
“What do you want, Blaine?”
“Toby… Toby Lane.”
I squint. What?
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay with me being on the show. Did, um, Anne tell you everything?”
Look at him, acting like getting me cast on the show was some grand gesture I owe him for.
I decide to play along—this is business, not forgiveness. Blaine’s a liability in designer shoes, and if I don’t manage him, he’ll poison the set. We’re not friends. We never were. And I’ll make damn sure he never forgets it.
