The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“That’s what you can do with your friendship,” I sneer as I stomp past him.

I open the door and walk into the building without looking back. I hit the elevator button with force, and I can see him standing at the glass door, watching me, in my peripheral vision. Tears are streaming down my face, and I’m furious that I let him see how crazy I am.

How crazy he’s made me.

The elevator doors open, and I march in and hit the door button.

The doors close, and I screw up my face in tears and sob out loud.

Damn you, Jameson Miles . . .

Chapter 24

There are moments in your life that you know you will remember forever.

Certain situations that are poignant and have shaped who you are.

Last night was one of them.

What kind of psycho rips roses to shreds with her bare hands while screaming like a lunatic? Shame runs through me.

This . . . is the level I’ve stooped to.

Strangely enough, last night was the first time I’ve slept well in weeks. As if releasing a little of the steam in the pressure cooker has somehow calmed my soul.

I don’t feel guilty for being so mean . . . normally, I would. But Jameson Miles is an enigma all of his own . . . one that I can no longer pity.

“I wouldn’t be friends with a selfish prick like you if you were the last person left on earth,” I said . . . screamed actually. It was a mean thing to say—the worst—but he got what he fucking deserved. The doors of the elevator in my building open, and I step out into the foyer and walk out into the street.

“What the hell happened here?” I hear the woman in front of me mutter under her breath as she stops and looks around at the carnage.

There are yellow rose petals strewn everywhere; flower buds that are squashed and bruised lie on the concrete. Out on the road the carcass of the flattened bouquet with the big cream satin bow lies.

Jesus . . .

I drop my head and stomp past the crazy. I glance up at the ceiling to see where the cameras are. I wonder if anyone saw it on the security footage.

I hope not . . . how embarrassing.

I get on my bus and open my Kindle. I’m not reading my usual rom-com genre. I can’t stand the thought of all that love bullshit. I’m mixing it up and reading Pet Sematary—maybe that’s it. Maybe Steven King is taking me to the dark side. The side where you don’t take shit, and payback on yellow roses is due.

Good for him . . . bring it the fuck on. I swipe to the next page.

Every dog has its day.

Jameson

I sip my coffee as I sit in the café across the street from Miles Media. I’ve been coming here the last few days before work. Alan told me that Emily used to come here with her friends. I’m hoping to run into one of them.

Why? I don’t know.

Emily’s words from last night are playing over and over in my mind.

I wouldn’t be friends with a selfish prick like you if you were the last person on earth . . . I wouldn’t want to be friends with me either if I were her.

I’ve never seen her so angry . . . or thin. She’s lost a lot of weight. I hate that I’ve put her through this shit.

I sip my coffee, and I feel a hand rest on my shoulder.