Page 68 of Crashed
He had to get to her, make her understand. He took off running flat out through the room and onto the street.
But he was too late.
Alex was gone.
Chapter Twenty
Alex lay back on the couch and watched Richard Gere open a velvet-covered jewelry box, then snap it down on Julia Roberts’s fingers. It was supposed to be some iconic, funny, unscripted part of this scene. In her opinion, it just made Edward look like a major jerk. Here, desperate prostitute girl, look what I have for you.
Snap.
Sucker! Wouldn’t want you to forget your place now.
What a complete and utter asshole.
Her phone started up again. A picture of Deacon flashed on the screen. He was smiling. The one with his elusive dimple on display. Speaking of assholes. She hit end and cut off the call.
Groaning, she squeezed her eyes closed, trying to make her mind shut the hell up. Nope, not working. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the look on his face out of her head, his words on constant loop, banging around her skull.
I’m in love with Alex.
She scrubbed her hands over her face. He didn’t mean it. How could he?
Walking into that room, after seeing those pictures—the pain had been acute, so much so, she’d felt like she was floating outside her body, a bystander to her own pathetic life. But she’d refused to let him see how much his betrayal had broken her. Her only thought had been making him pay, humiliating him the way he had her. Making him hurt, too, the only way she knew how.
And then he’d said it, said he loved her, and she’d freaked out.
Deacon was probably still getting his balls served to him by his irate sisters. God, she hadn’t meant to tell them, but seeing those pictures broke something inside her, and before she knew what she was doing, she’d spilled her guts.
The last thing she wanted was to mess up Piper and Rusty’s relationship with their brother.
Jesus, her head hurt.
Rolling off the couch, she climbed to her feet and dusted potato chip crumbs off her shirt. Gah! What a mess. And she wasn’t just talking about the carpet. She looked down at herself, still in the ridiculous outfit Rusty had shoved her in the previous evening. “What was I thinking?”
That was the problem—her brain hadn’t been in the driver’s seat.
Dragging her feet to the bathroom, she looked in the mirror. Mascara was smudged down her face, hair a tangled rat’s nest. She was rocking the whole Return of the Living Dead look. Nice.
Clean yourself up, girl. Dust yourself off and keep moving forward.
Jacob’s voice echoed in her mind. He’d helped her through some of the worst times of her life. Made sure she didn’t stumble and fall, no matter what obstacle was thrown in her way. It’s what she did. She didn’t know how to do anything else. If she stopped, let the pain take hold—stopped moving forward—she felt like she might turn to stone, might get back on the couch and never get off again.
She couldn’t avoid her friends forever. Tomorrow morning cars would arrive at the garage, jobs that needed to be done. Time wouldn’t stop because her heart was broken.
She couldn’t spend the rest of her life hiding from everyone.
She needed to talk to Deke.
He’d said he loved her, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t believe in it. Her feelings hadn’t mattered when he’d gone back to his ex. He’d played them both. No one wanted to be the other woman. And that’s what he’d made the both of them.
She had no love for Deacon’s ex-wife, and she didn’t know the cause of his and Emily’s split, but the cold way he’d shut her down in front of that room full of people…no one deserved that, not even Emily.
He’d lied and he’d cheated. She still found it hard to believe. She knew Deacon was ruthless in the boardroom, but she’d never dreamed he could be just as ruthless with the people around him, the people who cared for him. He had two sisters he loved and respected. His actions made no sense.
Stop.
She slammed the brakes on the direction her thoughts were taking. There was no excuse for it. No matter how out of character it seemed, the proof was in black and white in a crumpled heap in her recycle bin.
