Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
But when I finally get the courage to look at the bed, she’s sleeping alone. The blanket covers her bottom half and shows her bare body from the waist up.
I check her bathroom just to be sure, but it’s empty—no sign of another man having been here. I open the app up again, just in case I was seeing shit, but the pictures are still there. Comments are multiplying, and I’m being tagged left and right. I wasn’t seeing shit. They’re still there for all the world to see.
I close out of the app again and stop at the edge of the bed, watching her for a few minutes sleeping, her chest rising and falling. She never removed her makeup from last night, and it’s created dark circles under her eyes. Her blond tresses are a mess, fanned out across her pillow, and her beautiful plump lips are slightly parted.
My phone is going off in my pocket, but I ignore it, focusing my attention on the woman I love more than life itself. I try to convince myself that the images were a joke even though I know damn well she would never think that’s funny. Photos, just like those, tore us apart once before, and there’s no way she would pose for those photos, let alone allow someone to post them as a joke.
As I sit and watch her sleep, I wonder why I’m so calm after seeing those photos. I should be freaking the fuck out, yelling and screaming, going after both of them. But I’m not, and I know why. Because deep down, I know, fucking know, my woman wouldn’t betray me, which means someone else has—Justin being my main suspect—and once I get to the bottom of this shit, once she tells me what happened, I’m going to act accordingly. But I won’t freak out yet because the last time I did that and took off for LA, I lost Kaylee—and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let history repeat itself.
Maybe this makes me a pussy, or maybe it makes me a dumbass, but I just can’t find it in me to believe she cheated on me. I know what the pictures look like, but I also know her, and until I hear her say the words, I’m not going to believe she cheated.
“Brax,” she croaks, her voice tiny and rough. Her lids are hooded, and her eyes are bloodshot. “You’re...” She glances around, then drags her body up—either not noticing or remembering or caring that she’s naked—leaving her soft breasts on display. “I... don’t feel good.”
She clambers off the bed, and I jump to help her, but before either of us can do anything, she vomits all over the hardwood floor. And when she’s done, she does it again and again. I kneel next to her, holding back her hair while she gags and sobs between throwing up. The smell is rancid as fuck, but something is wrong with her, so I block it out.
Once she seems to be done, she tries to stand, but her legs are shaky. She’s barely on her feet before she collapses back onto the ground.
“Let’s get you to the shower,” I offer, picking her up and carrying her to the bathroom—ignoring the fact that she’s not just naked from her waist up but completely naked. Like without a single piece of clothing on her body.
In response, she snuggles into my chest, her eyes closing. Not giving a shit about my clothes or phone or anything, I turn the shower on warm and step inside, sitting on the bench with her laid out across my lap and in my arms. I wash her the best I can while she stays where she is, not saying a word, not moving or helping at all. As I wipe her face and wash her hair, her eyes remain closed. I want to demand answers, but I first need to make sure she’s cleaned up and is okay.
“Kaylee, can you stand?” I ask, needing her to get on her feet so I can clean the rest of her.
Her eyes flutter open, meeting mine, and her gray orbs appear lifeless. “I think so,” she whispers softly.
I gently set her on her feet, not letting go, and she uses the wall to hold herself up. I wash the rest of her body and rinse out her hair while looking for any signs she had sex—hickeys, bruises, I don’t fucking know. I’m confused as hell and have no idea what I’m doing, so I turn off the water. Grabbing two towels, I quickly strip out of my wet clothes and secure a towel around my waist, then use the other one to dry her off and wrap her up.
When we get back to her room, it smells like vomit, so I quickly set her on the bed and slip into some clothes I have here, then help her get dressed. She’s barely moving, reacting, and in my gut, I know something is very wrong. She either did what those pictures implied or something worse happened—and at this point, I’m not sure what I’m hoping for.