“How many messages and missed calls?” I sniff afterward, lying on the king-size bed in my Valentino and clutching my empty Solo cup, teary-eyed. Ty is wondering what the hell is up, and he's been calling Izzy pretty much nonstop since he realized my phone is dead. Though seeing as I smashed it against his precious car, I'm guessing he already knows I'm here, and that I am clearly ten shades of pissed off with him.
“Eight messages, four missed calls.” She glances at her phone, sitting in front of the vanity table and straightening her perfect hair. “Do you want me to answer it next time and tell him to piss off?”
“No. Let him squirm.”
I hear a firm rap on the door and cover my face with my forearms. Izzy shoves her chair as she gets up to answer.
“Who is it?” Izzy sing-songs.
“It’s Tyler. Get Blaire.”
I put the pillow over my head and hear Izzy’s heels clicking in my direction. He found out. How did he find out where I stay?
“No,” I say flatly underneath the pillow.
“He sounds crazy worried,” Izzy says carefully.
“Well, I'd be even crazier if I decide to listen to his excuses. No, Izz.”
The banging on the door becomes louder and firmer, and it’s distracting me from wallowing in self-pity.
“Blaire, open the fuck up. Let me in.” The urgency in his voice makes the hair on my skin stand up. I’ve never heard him so…panicked?
“He sounds desperate. I should open the door.” Izzy chews on the corner of her lip, going back and forth. She is wearing a canary yellow Vera Wang.
“Don’t open the door. He won’t strangle you. I will,” I warn.
“Fuck, Blaire, fuck!” He punches the door hard.
I hear a door open down the hallway. I hope it's not my parents. Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s someone else. Just because someone is yelling their daughter’s name, doesn’t mean it’s them. Have faith, Blaire.
“Excuse me?” I hear my mother asking Ty, and by the low, throaty coughs, my father is by her side.
Screw you life, we’re done.
Izzy yanks me by the elbow and we both shoot to the door, she is placing her ear against the cool wood to hear how this one plays out. I wince, hoping he isn't going to make more of a jackass of himself.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stern, right?” Ty's tone goes down a notch. “Not the kind of introduction I wanted to have with Blaire’s parents. I’m her boyfriend, Ty.” He presents himself assertively. “What I’m about to do here is going to get you worked up, so let me start by promising I’ll try and change your mind about me after this crisis is over. Obviously, I’ll pay for the damage too.”
I can feel his presence on the other side of the door. The heat. The passion. But also the man who fucked me over and kept me in the dark about him humping HUNDREDS OF WOMEN FOR CASH AND CAREER OPPORTUNITIES.
“Blaire, Izzy, open up in five seconds or I’m breaking this shit down. Five.”
Izzy’s eyes bug out at me, and I shake my head no.
“Four.”
Izzy takes a step back, and I roll my eyes at her. As if…right?
“Three.”
Izzy grips me by the midriff and tugs me away from the door.
“Two.”
Her eyes are pleading for me to give him a chance to explain himself. That I should at least open the door. I can’t. The guy did enough damage already. Why are we even having this eye conversation?
“One.”
Silence. I huff and shoot her an “I told you he won’t do anything” sneer, when the sound of shattering wood fills the air. I gape as I see Ty’s foot in the air. His kick has sent the door flying open and cracked its frame.
Holy Moly Guacamole.
Ty storms into the room and picks me up like a caveman, draping me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He pivots back to the door and marches out wordlessly. I notice my parents standing in the hallway, downright stunned. Shouldn’t Dad be fighting him off? Well, he doesn’t.
Izzy follows us while Mom follows Izzy. Then Dad snaps out of his stupor, rushing furiously after all of us. We’re a chain of crazy people running down the hallway of a Vegas hotel, and we stumble upon half-eaten room service trays and the bewildered stares of other guests.
“Is he really her boyfriend?” I hear Mom panting to Izzy as they try to catch up with Ty’s long stride.
“Yes. But she’s not talking to him!”
I can barely see any of them from my angle, as most of the view I get is of Ty’s tight ass and shoulder tattoos. He is not wearing much. Black sports shorts and a sleeveless top. Is it wrong that I love the scent of his sweat, especially now, after everything that happened? I know it is, no need to answer that.