The Revenge Games Duet

He pauses the screen and turns to face me. “Em, I’m trying here. I fucking miss you,” he strains.

“I know,” I say quietly, turning to face him.

His stubble covers his square jaw, and with his eyes serious and begging for forgiveness, I find myself softening under his gaze.

Placing his hands on my cheek, I rest my face in his palm allowing myself to revisit the feelings of being in love with Wesley Rich. He’s warm, and only a small part of me wishes things were the same. The other part of me is raging with jealousy that Logan’s fucking some slut.

I allow him to kiss me—without the cameras present.

It’s soft, sweet, and nothing like the ravenous Wesley who would practically maul me each time we kiss. When I retract, he tugs on the string of my tank and pulls it down, exposing my shoulder. He kisses my skin, and when my eyes close all I see is Logan.

This isn’t fair. I feel guilty no matter which way I look at it.

Moving his hand against my stomach, he moves upward until he’s cupping my breasts, growling into my neck and applying pressure with his body weight. The passion builds, but the mere thought of screwing Wes again is outweighed by the guilt of what I’ve done.

“Stop,” I murmur, laying my hands on his chest and pushing him back.

“Emerson, please don’t. I need you,” he begs.

“I need more time.”

His expression changes, eyes wild and full of anger. “You can’t fucking do this,” he yells. “Walking around and teasing me, telling me now when I know you need to be fucked. It’s been over a month, Emerson. If you don’t need to be fucked then you’re fucking someone else.”

“I’m not fucking anyone else,” I lie so easily.

“Then prove it. Fuck me. That’s all I ask of you.”

“No, Wesley, give me time to forgive you.”

“You’ve had time,” he pushes, disrespecting my wishes.

“Two months is not enough time to get over the hurt of you fucking two hookers,” I argue back. “We were supposed to get married. You threw that out the window, for what?” With my heart racing, scared he will call me out on what Logan and I have done, we both remain as silent as possible, the vibration of my cell distracting me. I quickly pick it up wanting to diffuse the argument.

There are two notifications on my screen. One from Farrah tagging Wesley and me in a picture. I forgot she’d even taken it. Wes has his arm around me and I’m smiling. The caption reads—Even when the cameras stop rolling, these two can’t keep their hands off each other. #SoontobeMr&MrsRich

I don’t know why she would post something like that, but I show Wes the picture calming his curiosity. I can see his shoulders relax, the breath of air he’s holding in releasing slowly.

The second is a text from Ash.

Ash: Mom just told me you’re coming to London. I’ll call you tomorrow. Trying to find somewhere else to crash tonight because Logan took his date home and told me he’s fucking her till the sun is up. Night sis.

I don’t know why I showed the text to Wes, maybe because I wanted him to see that Logan and I have nothing going on. That, and my heart’s pumping so hard, emitting a burning sensation in my chest. Placing the cell down, I sit against the couch pretending my silence is driven by our argument and not by the hurt and jealousy over a man who means nothing to me.

“How long do you need?” Wes breaks the silence.

I answer with haste, “For what? To repair a broken heart?”

“I said I was fucking sorry!” He raises his voice again, running his hands through his hair.

My stress levels peak, on a night when I want to lay here and do nothing. I don’t understand why Logan has to be such a prick. Demanding me to come play then running off with someone else. Mom’s right, he will destroy any woman who falls in love with him.

Not that I’m in love with him.

“How many times do I need to tell you? You can’t erase the past so easily. And by the way…” I add, bringing up his stupid comment during lunch, “… your barbaric persona at lunch today was not well received.”

“Neither was your comment on fucking British men,” he shoots back.

“I never said I was going to fuck British men.” I shake my head, laughing at the way he twists my words and makes me out to be the bad guy.