Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
When Kaylee never texted me back last night, I assumed she drank a bit too much and passed out. Since Justin was with her, I knew she was safe—which was confirmed when he texted me that she arrived safely at her apartment. But now, as I read the texts in utter confusion, my stomach roils in fear of what could’ve happened while I was without service. Clearly, something happened with Kaylee, but what? What the fuck could’ve happened from the time Justin made sure she got home to now? It’s only been six damn hours. None of this makes any sense.
Ignoring everyone’s texts, I call Kaylee first, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. I try again and again, but each time, it doesn’t even ring, telling me it’s either turned off or dead.
With my phone blowing up with notifications from social media, I click on one of them, which takes me to Justin’s Instagram page—where I’ve been tagged in one of many comments.
@BraxtonLutz fuck that bitch is the first one I see. Maybe it’s the jet lag, but I’m not sure what the hell is going on until my eyes move to the pictures in the post.
And then the comments and texts make sense... perfect fucking sense.
Because right there in front of me are several pictures of Kaylee and Justin in her bed.
She’s naked.
He’s without his damn shirt on.
Kissing her neck.
Grabbing her tit.
Her head is thrown back.
Eyes closed.
I swipe through them until I get to the end, and then I swipe back, refusing to believe what I see. My initial thought is déjà motherfucking vu. But then I remember she never cheated back then. It was all a lie to push me away, to get me to go to LA. So what the fuck is going on now?
I swipe through them again and again, analyzing each picture. His lips on her neck, his hand covering her nipple.
Why the fuck is my bodyguard touching my woman’s nipple?
I swear to God when I get ahold of him, I’m going to break his hand, along with every single fucking finger that touched my woman.
My woman. She’s mine. She told me so over and over again. We were supposed to be fighting for each other. And this is how she fights?
No, fuck that. She wouldn’t do this to me. She wouldn’t hurt me like this. I know Kaylee. She loves me. And Justin... why the hell would he fuck my woman and then post that shit for all the world to see? It makes no goddamn sense. He’s about to lose his job. He’ll never work in security again. That’s if I don’t kill him first.
I try to think back to the past several months. They’ve never shown a single sign of liking each other like that. Sure, they get along, but Kaylee gets along with everyone. But to jump in bed with each other?
She was drunk last night, but he sure as fuck wasn’t. And I don’t believe for a second she would ever be drunk enough to cheat on me.
But fuck, the proof is right in front of me. I want to trust her and believe this is all somehow a fucked-up misunderstanding.
But. His. Hand. Is. On her motherfucking tit.
His goddamn mouth is touching her flesh.
His body is pressed up against hers.
And fuck! I can see the fluffy body pillow she sleeps with at night.
Unable to look at the photos any longer, I close out the app and have my driver take me straight to Kaylee’s apartment. I considered going to Justin’s, but the pictures were taken at her place, so he’s either there with her still—in which case that motherfucker is dead—or she’s there alone, and I want to hear from her what happened. I want her to look me in the eyes and tell me why the hell she’s in photos with another man touching her when she’s mine.
I’m using another guard from the security company we have on retainer. If he’s heard anything, he doesn’t say a word, just drives me to where I need to go. When we arrive, I tell him to stay here, and he simply nods.
I get up to Kaylee’s apartment and use the key she gave me to get in—expecting the worst but hoping for the best—although I’m not sure exactly what the best is.
The place is quiet, too quiet, and as I walk through the apartment, checking each room—living room, kitchen, bathroom—I’m holding my breath, praying she’s alone. That the images were a figment of my imagination. That I’m jet-lagged and seeing shit, and everyone has lost their damn mind.
Like the wuss I am, I save the master bedroom for last. The door is closed, so I slowly turn the knob and open it. A part of me is expecting Justin to be in here, in her bed, tangled up in her sheets with her. His hand still on her tit, his face nuzzled into the crook of her neck—my favorite position to sleep with her.