Biker's Virgin

The heart won.

I pressed cancel instead and opened the text. A very long message scrolled down my phone screen.

Dear Brooke,

I know you must hate me right now. And you're totally justified in feeling that way. I admit it, I messed up. I messed up bad. But please just hear me out. I've realized there has been a gigantic misunderstanding and not getting back to you sooner might have been the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life.

I only hope it’s a mistake I can fix and not one that’s going to have permanent consequences.

Let me start by explaining why I didn't contact you during the two days I was at my dad's. My phone fell out of my pocket somewhere on the highway on my way there. I didn’t get a new phone, or any of the messages you sent, until a couple of days ago.

I'm so sorry. I wish I could've somehow gotten word to you that Monday that I’d lost my phone. I thought about you the whole ride to dad’s. And, I was missing you. Just so you know, Dad's surgery was successful, and he's going to make a full recovery. But back to you and me.

I drove back the next day fairly late after Dad’s surgery.

When I arrived & walked into my apartment, I was promptly arrested because the cops had been called on Chris for the noise and of course, they found all the alcohol.

Now here's where I really messed up.

First, I wasn’t upfront with you. I didn't tell you my mom is Dean of Faculty. It's not something I tell many people because I feel like they'll just assume I got into this college because of her or that she's doctoring my grades or something. You know how people jump to assumptions. Assumptions I really don't want people making about me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I know you're not the kind of person who would’ve judged me based on who my mom is.

My second major mess up was making assumptions myself. And this was the WORST mistake I made. I assumed that you were the one who called the cops. Please let me explain why I thought that.

One day in chemistry class, I overheard you and that Garrett guy talking about the noise from my place. He recommended you call the cops on us and you seemed to agree. Then Chris said he saw Leslie leave that night, so he was sure it was you who called the cops since Leslie wasn’t home.

I’m sorry I jumped to that conclusion. I should have talked to you, but I was pretty upset about that, because of… well, because of what had been going on between us. I had grown to trust you and thought you trusted me, too. I thought maybe you cared about me as much as I do you, and then that happened. I know I was wrong to assume you called. I can't believe I was so stupid and made such an epic error in judgment.

I know you didn’t call the cops on us and--

A sound I hadn't heard for a while interrupted my reading.

Grunting, groaning, moaning. A headboard pounding against the other side of my bedroom wall.

My blood began to heat. Anger, jealousy, and the bitter feeling of betrayal began rising in me. He had some serious nerve sending me an apology message, and yet right next door, just on the other side of the wall, he was back in bed with another woman, his hands and lips all over her, his beautiful body smothering hers, his cock--

No. Just, hell no.

I put my phone down and closed the message. I wasn't going to bother with him anymore. He was showing me exactly what kind of person he really was and there was no way he was going to sweet-talk his way around that. All the proof I needed was echoing through the wall.

“Sorry, Emerson,” I said to the phone, “but you've blown your cover. I hear you loud and clear. I hear you.”

Chapter Thirty

Emerson

I sat in the emptiness of my new apartment amidst the minimal furniture and still-unpacked boxes and stared at my phone. As soon as I sent the message, my heart started to race. Would Brooke read it? Would she respond? What would she say? Did she feel the same way about me as I felt about her?

I hit the “send” button with my heart in my throat. I had considered sending it in an email, but I wanted to know when or if Brooke had even read the message. So, I sent her a text instead. At least I could get a confirmation using a text message. And considering it was the first communication I'd had with Brooke since the night we’d been together, I needed to know where I stood. If she wouldn’t even read it, that would tell me loud and clear.

My message confessed everything—the loss of my phone, my foolishness, jumping to conclusions, and why I hadn’t told her everything. I'd laid it all on the line, opening myself up and telling her how much I cared about her.

I couldn’t deny how I felt about her anymore; that had become clear in the

light of possibly losing her. I had to let her know how I felt.

After nearly ten minutes of pacing from one room to another and literally checking the phone every thirty seconds, I picked up my guitar and turned on the amplifier I had brought over from my mom's place. I plugged it in, turned it down low so I wouldn’t upset my new neighbors before I even had a chance to meet them, sat down, and started to play. The gentle sound reverberated through the room, emphasizing how empty it was.

I played a song, then checked my phone only to find the message I’d sent remained unread. I did this three more times. About half an hour later, there was a notification the message had been read.