The Revenge Games Duet

Me: This guy on the plane smelled like weed. Remember the time I smoked it and you gave me a lecture about how it would stunt my growth? Such a lie. What did you do with the bag you stole off me?

I don’t expect him to respond, knowing they’re on a plane to England and probably out of cell service. With the apartment only a block away, I throw my cell into my purse and straighten my posture, staring out the window at the familiar houses lining the street.

Jimmy enters the code for our garage, parking his SUV in the same spot near the stairwell. The apartment block has four units and they all overlook the Pacific Ocean. Ours is located on the top level beside an entrepreneur, who divides her time between LA and Boston.

Jimmy takes my luggage upstairs, and with my feet dragging, I follow until we’re inside the living room. He places the suitcase to the floor and quietly exits the apartment, leaving me alone with Wes who’s sitting on the sofa.

This apartment used to be home only a few days ago. A place we both purchased and made ours. I remember the moment we got the keys, Wes carried me through the door and into an empty apartment. We both screamed with joy before making love on the cold tiles in the middle of the living room floor. Our bodies covered in sweat, clothes surrounding us as he cradled me in his arms while we stared at the ocean, talking for hours about our childhood.

It feels like a lifetime ago now, not the reality that’s sitting on the sofa in gray sweats with a black Nike jumper. In front of him is his cell, a bottle of rum and a pack of cigarettes. I don’t allow anyone to smoke in our apartment, and when I go to open my mouth and tell him my thoughts, the sounds of a tiny bell with soft pitter-patters distract me until George is rubbing his face against my leg.

“George!” I pick up his fat little body, cradling him in my arms. The smell of his doggy fur brings me so much joy and knowing he’s alive and well, because the housekeeper didn’t kill him from overfeeding him her exotic dishes from the Philippines.

After smothering him and kissing his little pug face, I put him down to brave the inevitable.

“You look good,” Wes comments dryly, lighting up a cigarette and blowing the smoke into the clean air.

“You look like shit.”

“Nice, Emerson.” He lays back on the sofa, his eyes dark and surrounded by deep lines. Wesley hates growing any facial hair, so his mustache and beard come as a complete surprise. It adds ten years onto his baby face. He looks like utter shit and I reap some sort of joy from that.

“I’m sorry.” Crossing my arms, I try to control the anger that’s brewed—to the point of steaming—inside. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“Em... please, don’t. I’m just so—”

“Let me guess? You’re sorry. You don’t know how it happened? It was a mistake and you’ll never do it again?” I finish, placing the words in his mouth.

The room falls silent, the only sounds are the sea crashing against the shore outside. Even George has left the room preparing for the shitstorm ahead.

Wes moves his body and sits on the edge of the sofa. His fingers tapping against his knee rapidly with nervous energy bouncing off him. He’s probably high, and that thought alone angers me even more.

“Are you high now?” I yell, the sound of my voice echoing through the room.

“No.”

My eyes move away, desperate to erase the image before me. This isn’t him. This isn’t the guy I fell in love with. And to make matters worse, I d

on’t know how we got here. What’s troubling him so much he ended up taking this road? Why was sniffing that deadly shit even a thought?

“I can’t even look at you.”

The built-up emotions hit me like a wrecking ball. Hard, fast, and knocking the wind out of my stomach making it difficult to breathe. The lack of remorse, the pathetic apology, the disregard for my feelings.

All of it has come to this moment.

The moment I need to tell him what I want.

“I want you to leave,” I tell him in a stern voice, sucking in my breath to control the bile lingering around my throat.

Instantly, his expression changes—eyes full with his cheeks flushed, shading the pale white he reflected only moments ago.

“Emerson, please, don’t. I fucked up. I’m sorry. I’ll make it better. Please! We can move past this. Just give it time. I promise you, I will make it up to you.” He doesn’t move from the sofa, no attempt to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Not that it will help. Stroke my ego, perhaps. But I’m beyond the need for ego-stroking.

I shake my head with a sardonic laugh. “If it was me being fucked by two guys, would you like me to make it up to you?” The minute I say the words, the pang of guilt stabs me as I so easily forget about what happened with Logan.

But this isn’t the moment to think about it.

Logan and I made a pact—keep it a secret.