Page 44 of Ride or Die

I pick up my phone and open it. There is a message from an unknown number with a video attached, which appears to be in Axel’s garage. My brows furrow. Someone must have sent this by mistake. I don’t want to pry into anyone’s business, so I respond to the mystery number.

Layla: Who is this? I think you have the wrong number.

Unknown number: Just watch the video.

I swallow the sudden lump forming in my throat. Everything about this makes me nervous. I have no clue about the type of people Colt works with. Do they know about me? Is this message a threat?

I press play. The video is erratic at first, panning around Axel's garage, then down to the floor. There’s loud music, laughter, and chatter in the background. The recording moves from the ground over to my sister and Serena, making out like a couple of whores. The camera shifts slightly to the left to show Colt sitting there, watching them as he takes a sip of his drink. He gets up from his seat and saunters over with a suggestive look on his face that makes me feel sick. He stops before them and leans in, whispering something. There is a smile on his lips, directed at them, before he walks away. Even with the crappy video quality, I see Simone’s cheeks flush, her eyes on Colt as he walks away. Once he’s out of sight, the two girls giggle andkiss each other again, holding hands as they follow him into the house.

That’s where the video ends.

My heart sinks into my stomach.

He couldn’t have. He told me he loves me.

This has to be a setup. Someone’s sad attempt to break us up. It doesn’t even show anything incriminating, just Colt saying something and walking into the house. This doesn’t mean anything.

I watch the video repeatedly, and the more I watch it, the more my brain tricks me. My anxiety spikes, and I start overthinking everything, actually starting to believe he took them into the house and fucked them.

He had a threesome with slutty Simone and skanky Serena!

I fight back tears, swallowing past the ball of anxiety in my throat. I need some fucking answers.

Without thinking, I run out of the house in nothing but my joggers and tank top, forgetting a coat despite the cold, rainy late November evening.

The rain pummels my skin, but I don’t feel it. I’m heated, fueled by rage and fear mixed into a crazy concoction.

I’m about to flip the fuck out.

I march up to the garage where some of the regular crew is hanging out. Conveniently, some of the regular skanks are here too.

So much for a guys’ night.

As soon as Colt sees me, he jumps up, looking concerned. I didn’t call, and bitches are here, so maybe I’m catching him doing something he shouldn’t be. Just like the video, taking a night off from the ball and chain to fuck a skank. I mean these women weren’t supposed to be here, yet here they are.

Or, it could be the fact that it’s pouring and I’m drenched, showing up unannounced in nothing but a now see-through white tank top and joggers, scowling like some woman scorned.

“So much for a guys’ night, huh? Care to explain this?” I ask bluntly, tossing my phone at him. He catches it and looks genuinely confused.

People look on at the domestic dispute about to unfold. I’m sure they’re waiting to pull out their phones to record the humiliating moment.

Colt watches the video, and his eyes widen.

“It’s not what it looks like.” His hands come in front of him in defense. I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest to cover my tits. “Who sent this to you?” he asks angrily.

“I don’t know whose number that is, and it kinda looks exactly like that, Colton.”

Colton approaches me cautiously, hands still in front of him. “Baby, I swear to you it’s not. Whoever recorded this…someone is trying to get between us,” he tries to explain.

I huff out another scoff and shake my head in disbelief, turning to walk back to my house. I don’t need this shit. I don’t deserve it.

Typical excuse. It’s never ‘what it looks like.’

He runs after me, grabbing my elbow and turning me towards him. “Layla, I?—”

"Did you fuck them?!" I shriek.

"No! I didn't, I—" I put up my finger, interrupting him.