Page 72 of The Biker and the Baker

He pushes away from the railing and stalks up to me. “Tell me,” he grits out. “Tell me to my goddamn face instead of hiding like the coward you are.”

“Onyx, I—”

“Tell me, Pia.”

Why, oh why am I so gutless with relationship confrontations? “I—I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

“Why?” he demands.

“I’m just not ready for anything serious.”

“Then what thefuckwas all that ‘I’m in love with you’ and ‘I’m sticking around’ bullshit?!” he roars in my face, making me wince. “Why’d you lead me on?”

I can feel it, the hum of an anxiety attack approaching like a distant train, low and dull, vibrating. “I didn’t. I was confused. It’s your fault! Too much too fast. I can’t…”

His head jerks to the side, brows creased with concern as he takes a step closer. “Hey, hey, you good?”

“Yes,” I clip.

“If you want to slow things down, we can—”

“It’s too late. I’m over you.”

At that, his face hardens, jaw tight. “It’s been aweek.”

“Seven days, I know.”

Eyes icing over, he takes a step back. “Do you get off on this shit? Did you mean any of what you said?”

“I’m breaking up with you, Onyx,” I say without patience, bile bitter in my throat. “Just take it like a man and stop acting like a little bitch. Aren’t you supposed to be some big, bad biker or something?”

I flounce around him and toward my apartment.

“Cal’s right, isn’t he?” he calls after me. “There really is a toxic, fucked-upside to you.”

Huh. They’ve been talking about me. Which means he knows the whole truth about Calvin. The hum of my anxiety grows louder, creeps closer. My palms are drenched, slippery. The thought of Onyx thinking of me as some horrible person makes me sick. I love him. I love him. I love him.

I don’t.

Throwing a glance over my shoulder at him, I smile wanly. “Hi. My name is Pia Saxena. Goodbye.”

With that, I let myself into my apartment and immediately drop everything I’m holding as the contents of my stomach gush up my throat with the force of a waterfall. I make it to the bathroom just in time, retching until my ribs hurt.

When there’s nothing left in me but blood and air, I slump to the floor, slide my phone from my coat pocket, and dial a number I haven’t called in months.

“Hi, Pia.”

“Kyor,” I croak out. “I did it again. I need a session.”

~

“How do Calvin and New Guy compare, if at all?” Kyor asks, her soul-searching stare burning me like hot coals.

I stop fiddling with the fringy edges of her couch pillow and hug it to my chest instead.

Her office is classy, like her. Beige with gold accents, contemporary, sharp. A complete bore for someone like me. But it suits her.

In the armchair across from me, she crosses her legs, waiting for me.