Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) (19 page)

And for a second, I was afraid. What I had grown up in, the abuse, had engrained itself inside me, and for a split second, when I realized he was angry, I thought he was going to hit me.

He looked at me from his lowered head and calmly said, “No.”

I let that fear dissipate, ashamed that I’d actually thought so little of him. Jag may have hurt me with words, with something that he’d done before we knew each other, but he would never lay a hand on me. And I knew that.

The longer I stared at him, the louder that comment, “a bet,” rang in my ears.

I felt my nostrils flare and I closed my eyes. “A fucking bet?” My voice shook and I opened my eyes, forcing myself to look at him.

“I could so see that. You are such a damn jerk, such a womanizer, and the fact that I acted like I couldn’t stand you just really set your ass on fire, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it did. But I didn’t
make
a bet. Stone and I were joking. A joke, Roxy. It was just a fucking joke. Do you really think I would bet that I could get you?”

I jerked away from him. “Yeah, I do. You’re an ass and a whore!”

His eyes darted away from me and his chest expanded from the breath he’d drawn in. “Well,” he tossed his hands up in the air, “so what, even if it were a bet?”

It really had been a bet, and that infuriated me. My entire body heated and I dropped my bags in the floor.

“Well, I guess that would just make you a liar and a complete piece of shit,” my throat tightened and my vision blurred behind tears, “and make me a damn idiot!”

Jag stared at me, and the longer he stood there without saying a word, the more humiliated I grew.

“I can’t
believe
you. You…you made me think you liked me. You took advantage of my feelings. You
lied
to me, and for what? You’re a fucking asshole. You know, just because you think you are a god doesn’t give you the right to completely fuck my life up. People aren’t pawns for you to manipulate. I was perfectly fine before you decided fucking with my heart was a good way to make some money. I thought you were different than that stupid image you’ve portrayed.” I paused long enough to take a breath. “I thought you were real, Jag. I
believed
you were real. I thought you had a heart, that you were a good person inside, one that I wanted to be with. You made me feel things….And the fact that you just—”

He grabbed me, the motion shaking loose tears and causing them to trickle down my cheeks.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to look at him.

“You can’t do stuff like that. You can’t—”

Jag pressed his index finger over my lip, stopping me midsentence, and causing me to open my eyes again.

His bottom lip rolled underneath his teeth and then he blurted out, “I love you.”

As soon as he’d said that, his eyes widened and he swallowed. His breathing quickened and I had to question if he’d really just said it. I think even he was questioning if he’d
really
just said those words.

He shook his head and said it again. “I love you.”

His thumb grazed over my shoulder as his hold on me loosened slightly. His expression softened and he mumbled, “And that’s not something you should take lightly, because I don’t even love my damn self!”

My pulse fluttered and flipped, my heart slammed around inside my chest.

Then he let go of me.

“So if you want to leave me, if you want to believe a fucking idiot over me—or better yet, if you just want a way out of this—if you don’t love me too, then just go ahead and leave. I won’t stop you.”

I watched him lean against the wall. I studied him, trying to figure out if he was serious, or if he was just lying to save face. His eyes darted up to me and he looked utterly terrified, he looked vulnerable, and I knew he’d meant it.

I was struggling. A lot was going on, everything was uncertain, and I had not been ready for all of this, but is anyone ever ready for something like Jag?

Had I been given a year to prepare for all of this, I still wouldn’t have felt ready. Jag’s an experience people wait a lifetime for, and when something like that slams into your heart you’re
never
ready for it. The man I was in love with, the man that would most likely destroy me, had just confessed he was in love with me too. That made it too hard to turn and run away from.

Love is something that you can’t escape. You can ignore it and pretend it doesn’t exist, but it poisons you, infects you, and running from it eats away at you like a disease.

He pushed himself from the wall, running his fingers through his hair, mussing it. “Damn it. I mean it. I don’t need to be with you for a year to fucking know I love you.” His voice softened, coated with a sincerity I’d never heard Jag possess. “Whether you do or not, I love you.”

Just tell him.
I swallowed. I could feel my insides shaking, because for me to utter those words was monumental.

It meant that I’d given into him.

It meant that I was accepting the fact that I would most likely be hurt again.

It meant that he was
worth
having the small pieces of myself I’d managed to hold together be shattered.

It meant he was the first person I’d allowed to get
too
close to me in years.

“I love you too.” I pressed my lips to his, crying.

I gave myself to him with that kiss. Resting my head on his shoulder, I begged, “Just don’t lie to me. Don’t hurt me. Jag, please just
don’t
hurt me.”

“I won’t,” he whispered, and pulled me close to him, burying his face in my hair. “I promise.”

Chapter 23

Later that evening, I lay awake in his bed. My stomach was queasy and my mind wouldn’t stop long enough to allow sleep.

I glanced over at Jag, who was completely out, and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. I texted Layla. I needed advice, and she was the only person I had.

You up?

Layla: I’m not ninety. Yes. I’m up.

I slipped out from underneath Jag’s thick comforter and tiptoed toward the door, praying it wouldn’t creak and wake him. I slowly opened the door, breathing a sigh of relief when I was able to escape without him stirring.

I snuck out through his just-for-show dining room onto the patio and walked toward the back of his house, around the pool, and over to the seating area by his outdoor kitchen that I was certain had never been used.

I dialed Layla’s number, and she picked up on the first ring.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I need to talk.”

She huffed. “Uh, well, that’s obvious since you texted me then called me. What’s wrong?”

Sometimes I felt guilty for walling her off. I loved her, but it was just hard for me to let my guard down.

“I’ve got a problem.”

“You have a problem? How? You’re shacking up with a superstar.”

I was so tired of hearing shit like that. I was so annoyed with the fact that people thought having fame, fortune, whatever all the shit that surrounded Jag was, made you immune to anything, because it didn’t.

“Layla…”

She laughed. “Okay, okay. I’ll be serious. What’s going on?”

I sucked in a deep breath and took a quick glance around to make sure Jag hadn’t woken and snuck outside. “I’m pregnant.”

“What?” she shouted into the phone. “What? Are you fucking serious, Roxy? Don’t mess with me like this!”

I sat down on one of the metal patio chairs, the dew seeping through my thin cotton pants and giving me a slight chill. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, my God!” There was a long pause. “What did he say?”

“I haven’t told him.”

“Uh, why not?”

I shrugged even though she couldn’t see me. “I’m scared. I don’t know how to. I don’t know…”

“How long have you known?”

“Three weeks.”

“Roxy! How have you not told him, or me, or anyone? Oh, my God. You’ve
gotta
tell him. You owe him that.”

My chest tightened and a small sob broke free from my throat. “I know.”

“Oh, don’t cry. It’ll be okay. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“He could leave me.”

“Well,” her tone quickly grew hostile, “if he does that then he doesn’t deserve you anyway, and I’ll kill him.”

“Layla!”

“Okay, look. You’re upset, understandably so. Why don’t we go to dinner tomorrow, we’ll talk about it and come up with the best way to tell him where he’ll be the least likely to freak out. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay. Meet around five?”

“Okay.”

“All right. Love you.”

“Love you too,” I whispered, and hung up the phone.

I should have just told him that next morning, but everything happens for a reason.

When I think back and try to blame myself for the fucked-up things that happened, I have to remind myself of a Marilyn Monroe quote that kind of became the mantra for my life, “
Sometimes things fall apart so that better things can fall together.”

Sometimes shit has to completely get destroyed for things to turn out the way they’re supposed to, that’s just hard to digest at times.

Chapter 24

I had to tell him. I fucking had to tell him.

I had a doctor’s appointment the next day. I was pretty sure that guys were at least supposed to have the opportunity to come to those.

God, he was going to flip his shit. I was on my way to meet Layla, I needed reassurance, I needed someone to look me in the eyes and tell me I should tell him instead of running the hell away.

Unfortunately, on the way to dinner I made the mistake of stopping at the gas station, and instead of paying at the pump, I went inside the convenience store.

I stood at the counter and laid the pack of mints down, instinctively glancing down at the rack of magazines. Scanning the tabloids, I almost skimmed past the picture of Jag.

I was so used to seeing his face plastered on everything I could have easily passed it by—but this one was different because he had his arm around some woman and there was a picture of a kid.

I snatched that magazine up, my hands trembling as I read over the headline:
Jag Steele’s Lovechild.

“You want that?” the clerk asked as he stared at the register and repeatedly swiped the mints under the scanner.

“Uh, yeah.” I laid it down, still glaring at the picture in disbelief. “Sure.”

Motherfucker. He had sworn he wouldn’t lie to me, and why I ever believed him is beyond me.

“Eight seventy-two.”

I handed my cash to the guy, grabbed the mints and tabloid, and stomped out of the store, pushing the door open with such force that it slammed against the concrete exterior of the building. The guy in my path jumped to the side to let me by.

I slung open the car door and flung myself into the worn seat. Starting my car, I gripped the steering wheel and finally let the tears fall. I got choked up and grabbed my phone from the console.

I was about to hit his number, but instead, chucked my phone into the floorboard and stared at my troll doll.

I’d let Sean down.

I’d fallen back into the same cycle I’d tried to escape, albeit instead of a poverty-stricken crackhead, I’d tied myself to a rich cokehead, a liar, and a man I knew I’d never be enough for.

Drugs were Jag’s love story, and he was mine, and that fucking broke me into a million tiny irreparable pieces of pain.

I slammed the gear into reverse, the tires squealing as I backed up and swerved out from the dimly lit parking lot onto the highway. I rehearsed what I would say to him, going over and over how hard I would cuss him out and rip into him for lying, for
making
me love him, for ultimately destroying me, because I had convinced myself he knew all along what he was doing to me—baiting me to surrender to him just so he could tear me to shreds.

I had just gained control of myself when one of his songs came over the radio.

Never had I had an experience quite like that, and really, how many people can say they have?

At that moment it became crystal clear that I couldn’t escape him—even if I left him, even when he was no longer part of my life, I would never rid myself of him, because he was fame.

He was fucking Jag Steele.

I had known, along with the rest of the world, who the hell he was for the past six-and-a-half years. He’d known who I was for the past two months.

When we were through, he’d never have to see me again, but I would be forced to see him on TV, on magazines; I’d have to skip over his songs on the fucking radio. And what the hell would I do when the tabloids smeared him and every girl that would come after me all over the front page?

Well, I guess I’d just have to swallow that down like every other piece of hurt I had dealt with in the past.

He could easily forget who I was, but I would be forced to remember him. Even when all I wanted to do was forget him, fame—his ridiculous, fucking fame—wouldn’t let me.