Page 30 of Ablaze

She’s fucking dating someone and never told me?

We spent the entire day together, making cakes, laughing, and catching up . . . and she didn’t feel the need to tell me? What the fuck?

I try to ease the anger rising to the surface, thoughts that make me feel unleashed, untethered from the inside.

I know I have no right, no fucking right, to feel this incensed, but I swear, the betrayal feels purposeful. I have no right to feel any of this–this fury, this shock . . . this ache, as if my chest is being ripped open.

Why should I feel this way? Where is any of it coming from? It makes no goddamn sense whatsoever.

But seriously, how the fuck could she?

I’m just on my way to the bar to close out my tab and get the fuck back home–my good mood completely shot–when I feel a hand on my elbow.

I look over to catch the hazel eyes of a pretty blonde with a sultry smile.

“H-hi,” she stutters, falling into me when someone bumps her. The drink in her hand sloshes over the rim of her glass and lands on my shirt. “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry!” She puts her glass down on the bar and grabs a couple of napkins, dabbing at my shirt before looking up at me again. “I’m so sorry. That was not how I saw this going in my head.”

I swallow through the million thoughts swirling around in my brain–none of them about her. I barely even register the chill from my wet shirt or this woman dabbing at it like it’s her mission.

All my thoughts feel jumbled, like they’ve been put in a blender, but a couple keep coming back to the forefront. Specifically, the thought of some fucker putting his hands on my . . . Mala. Of someone taking her out and making her laugh.

And she never told me . . .

Why the fuck didn’t she tell me?

And why the fuck am I having such a hard time with this? It’s not like I never expected her to find someone. Of course, I did. Didn’t I?

It’s not like she’s mine–not in that way. She can’t be. Not when I can’t promise the forever she deserves. So why? Why does none of this feel right?

“How did you see this going in your head?” I ask the blonde, despite not knowing how I formed the words, despite every internal inkling telling me to leave.

Get the fuck out of here and go the fuck home.

Fume in peace.

She sidles closer to me, leaving mere inches between us. Right behind her, my eyes connect with Rohan’s. He raises his bottle in the air, cheersing me, as if to say, “Good for you, buddy!”

But he has no clue. No fucking clue.

Just like me.

“I saw this with me introducing myself, you buying me a drink, and us finding a place to be alone.”

I lick my lips, disconnecting my gaze from her. I’m still seeing red, but that’s not her fault. “Yeah.” I hear myself say with a nod. “Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. So, how about we start from the beginning?”

Ten minutes and another drink later, I'm pinned against the front of the building with Taylor–or did she say her name was Sailor?–cupping my flaccid cock over my jeans. We’re waiting for an Uber because I’m too fucking tossed to drive my truck back home.

Her mouth moves from my neck, where she’s been sucking on the same spot for God knows how long, to my lips, but I turn my face away before she can catch them.

She doesn’t seem to take offense, giggling through her words. “I saw you from across the bar and knew I had to talk to you. You’re seriously the hottest guy I’ve ever met.”

The dull ache in my chest seems to stab against my heart, then my lungs, traveling to my fucking stomach.

I should take her home, fuck her into oblivion.

I should release this pent-up frustration and rage until neither of us can see straight.

I mean, if she didn’t have the balls to tell me about this fucker she’s dating–could possibly be fucking–then why should I feel guilty about fucking a random chick from the bar?

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