Page 14 of A Wreck, You Make Me

I swallow, my tongue thick in my mouth. “Six.”

“What?”

“He broke six of his bones.”

Four ribs, his nose and his left wrist. Some articles said it was his left ankle too, thereby creating speculation and starting rumors that Shepard Thorne,theShepard Thorne of New York City FC might never be able to play again. I’m not sure why they’d do that, why they’d lie, because the doctors’ reports were clear. But I’m guessing they did it for the views.

“Wow, that’s insane,” Lively says. “No wonder people are saying he’s off his game. I mean, how do you come back from that? From your fiancée cheating on you with your twin brother and then that twin brother goes ahead and breaks your bones? All before the most important game of the season? What a nightmare. The guy lost everything in one night. I’m just surprised he’s coming back next season.”

Me too. Not because I don’t believe in him or believe he can come back from what happened six months ago, but because of the rampant speculation about him, all the rumors and gossip. All the pity and sympathy people throw at him while talkingabout him behind his back. As if they know him. As if they know anything he’s gone through. He was right when he said people think his life is a reality TV show that they can watch while breaking out the popcorn. And I don’t know how he handles that. I don’t know how he can handle all the pressure that the world seems to put on him.

“Can we,” I begin, “not talk about this? I just… I don’t want to gossip.”

“Oh shit,” Lively says, her eyes contrite. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“No, you’re fine. I just don’t feel right.”

She nods. “No, you’re right. We shouldn’t. It’s not as if we were there and actually know what happened. Most of this stuff is exaggeration or downright false anyway.”

Iwasthere. When it happened. I was therewhileit was happening. While his twin was beating him up and breaking his bones. I was there when a crowd had gathered and someone called 911.

But I still don’t want to talk about it behind his back.

In any case, I have work to do. So when the bartender finally puts the drinks I’ve been waiting for in front of me, I brace myself. I tell myself I can’t let his presence affect my job. Yes, I hate this job but I need it. So Ineedto go deliver drinks to people, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. But all my good intentions evaporate when I finally, after months, clap eyes on him.

And my heart starts twisting and pounding in my chest.

He’s sprawled on the red leather couch, his hands gripping the armrests, his head tipped back as a stripper grinds herself in his lap. I can only see his profile from here, the slant of his jaw and the peaked bones of his cheek. Not to mention, the club is dark with only a red neon-y light to illuminate things. But even so, I know he’s having a good time. I know he’s completelyengrossed in the way the blonde stripper is writhing on his lap. He probably doesn’t even sense the world around him, let alone that someone is watching him get a lap dance.

I don’t really want it to, but jealousy burns hot in my veins.

Hotter than all the other times I’ve seen him with a girl. Hotter even than when he went down on one knee for his girlfriend in front of the whole world. Maybe because I’ve spent the last six months worried about him. I’ve spent every single night tossing and turning, imagining him at the hospital, seeing his unconscious body. Imagining hispain. Not of the broken bones but of a broken heart. Because the girl he loved, the girl he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with, chose his twin brother over him.

And he’s here, getting a lap dance as if everything is okay.

I know I should give myself time to cool down, to see reason. I’m sure this lap dance doesn’t mean anything in the bigger scheme of things. But I begin to walk. I have four vodka martinis on my tray that I need to deliver to one of the tables in my section. But instead of walking toward it, I head to where he is. Instead of passing him by, I stop.

Then, I pretend to stumble.

The tray in my hand wobbles. I can save it, but I don’t. I let the glasses slide to the edge and tip over. A couple land at his feet and shatter, spilling the drinks. One lands on his chest and the other goes directly to his lap.

At which point, hefinallylooks away from the girl in his lap and our gazes clash.

Chapter Two

The stripper’sname is Bridgette.

I only realize that when after, screaming, she jumps off his lap and turns toward me in outrage. I immediately feel regret because I know her. She’s not going to let this go. I mean, I also regret that I ruined her dress. Or rather, her lingerie but still. Anyway, it’s brand new. I know that because she tells me. Or rather yells at me, with frantic hand gestures.

She also snaps at me about being careless and blind and what the fuck was I thinking. I want to apologize to her, but she won’t let me get a word in edgewise. Especially not when she busts out the B word. As in, bitch.

“That’s enough.”

I flinch at the voice. Rough and low, seemingly filled with secrets, my favorite. Right now, it has a command in it that Bridgette heeds and stops. She turns away from me and focuses on him. I think he’s up from his seat as well. I can’t be sure because I’m not looking at him. Probably because I’m having a hard time with that after what I did.

Stupidly. Impulsively.Crazily.

God, what was I thinking? Why don’t Ieverthink when it comes to him?