Page 29 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two

“Come on, baby,” I say, my voice sounding wrong in the quiet.

Her pedaling loses its normal cadence as she grinds down on the seat, and because I know her body like I know my own, I see the exact moment when she comes.

Hard.

Shae clenches up, falling over the handlebars and breathing so hard she rocks up and down on the machine.

She stays like that, her head braced on her arms where they rest on the handles, for a long time. So long that I think maybe she’s come so hard that she’s passed out.

But then, she sits up, her back going so straight so quickly that it almost looks like she’s been shocked.

She unclicks one foot and then the other from the pedals and stands.

Stretches.

And then I see it.

Shae wipes her hands over her eyes—her red eyes—and I watch as she crumbles to the floor.

There’s no denying that the jagged rise and fall of her shoulders are from her sobs.

Don’t look away.

This is my punishment: to see her, to be so close to her that I can almost taste her—but not be able to say a fucking word.

Not being able to comfort her when she seems to need it the most.

I stare out the viewfinder for a long moment, well after she rises, wipes her face, and strides into her bedroom like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

I don’t know what to do with my feelings…with what I just witnessed.

All I know to do is pray she hasn’t been in the same Hell I’ve been in these last eight years.

SEVEN

SHAE

I’m late to the office.

The showdown with the Keystone folks, Zane’s presence, and the fact that I’m seeing things had me drinking two and a half glasses of wine last night before I crashed into my bed withDrumlineplaying on the flatscreen in my bedroom.

And I rarely drink these days.

When I woke up this morning, hoping to get myself together with a quick, hard ride, I only ended up coming on the bicycle seat.

Which clearly is…beyond.

I grab my oversized Kate Spade purse and exit my G-Wagon, booking it to the elevators. Yenn makes fun of me and my Kate collection.

“You’re rich-rich now, bestie! At least get a Birkin!” she says way too often.

But I don’t want flashy shit just because I can. I like what I like, and I like Kate Spade.

The doors slide open, and the car is blessedly empty, so I take the time to calm my heart rate and access the inner bad bitch Ineed to be to the rest of the world once the elevator stops on the top floor.

For the last few months, everything has been in flux, and the truth is, I don’t feel equipped to handle it all.

I know Iwillhandle it all.