Page 85 of Rocked By the Alpha

Then maybe he was wrong after all. Maybe it really is over.

“She didn’t tell you?” The flush from her cheeks has faded and a look of sympathy swims across her features.

“Y-yes,” he hits the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I got confused about the date.”

The woman eyes him suspiciously. And he waves a goodbye. “Thanks … I’ll …” He ducks into the car and jerks it away.

The thoughts battle in his head as he fights his way back through the traffic.

But it comes down to two choices.

Give up. Let her walk away.

Or keep fighting.

It’s hard to make the decision while the pain swims in his veins, the shock fresh in his body.

He can’t believe she’s gone. Without saying goodbye.

Is he a fool for even considering continuing to pursue this woman?

Isn’t this as clear a sign as any other that she isn’t interested?

Serious.

She said he wasn’t serious about them. But maybe she was the one who was never serious about this relationship. The one who never wanted to commit. The one who kept running away. The one who was only serious about the game.

Because as soon as things did get serious, she bailed.

The data stick digs into his thigh as if straining to get out of his pocket.

The song plays in his head; the lines he’s written, repeating and repeating.

The car journey passes in a blur and, when he passes through the gate of his home, he realises he can’t remember the drive there.

He parks the car and slumps into the house.

It’s so big and so empty. He wants to fill it with his own family. He wants to open the door and have the people he loves most in the world rush towards him. He wants this place to smell of her.

He walks through to the music room. The light fades and the instruments lie in shadow as if they’re sleeping. The sky outside is turning grey, faint hints of pink dissolving into the horizon, and the wind rustles the palm trees in the distance.

Where is she? He was sure the tour didn’t begin for another week. They must be rehearsing.

He steps over to the computer in the corner and wiggles the mouse. The screen lights up, staining his fingers blue.

He googles. Chicago. She’s in Chicago. There’s a picture of the band arriving at the airport. Fuck, she looks good.

He sinks into the chair, swinging it from side to side, his hand gripping the mouse.

So what is he going to do?

The data stick burns in his pocket, scraping against his skin. The song screams in his head.

Fuck it! What does he have to lose!

He angles the webcam around and runs his fingers through his hair. Then he hooks the stick out of his pocket and thrusts it into the computer.

He’s going to put right what he should have done long ago. Make a new video to wipe away that first one. Sing a new song to overshadow the other.