Page 69 of The Ring
I freeze looking at him, but he doesn’t look at me. He is too engrossed in what he’s doing.
He’s in a booth, with his tongue deep in Weberly Johnson’s throat, both of them dressed all in white, looking almost angelic, though what they’re doing is anything but. They’re not exactly hard to miss—probably the only two people in the entire nightclub without masks.
I—I guess they took them off because they got in the way of their intense make-out session.
I just stand there, frozen, staring at them until a girl bumps into my back and mutters a quick sorry.
It… it kind of feels like… what happened with my mother allover again—but, of course, what happened with her was ten times worse.
Right now, I’m not his girlfriend.
He… he doesn’t owe me anything. Still, it’s an arsehole move.
He slept in my bed last night and the night before.
And I wanted him there again tonight.
I want to dig a hole, crawl in, and never come back. But since I can’t, I do the next best thing and run to a cleaning cupboard I know no one uses when the nightclub is open.
I get to it, and thankfully, it’s unlocked. I step inside and sink onto one of the long wooden benches along the wall. I rip off the stupid mask that’s been itching me for a while, toss it into the hall, and finally let myself cry.
I—I shouldn’t be surprised.
It’s not?—
It’s not like I thought he’d wait for me. He didn’t even wait until he was single to sleep with someone else.
But it hurts. It hurts so deeply. It hurts so much that I wonder if this is what dying feels like. I think it’s worse because when you die, the pain eventually ends. And I feel like I’ll carry this pain forever.
I take a few shaky breaths, calming myself, when the door swings open. A tall man steps inside—brown hair, brown eyes, dressed head to toe in black, his face hidden behind a mask that covers almost all of it.
My immediate response is to wipe away my remaining tears instead of panicking at being in a cleaning cupboard with a man I don’t know. It makes me realise that perhaps my self-preservation instincts aren’t as sharp as I’d imagined. But I really hate people watching me cry.
“It’s occupied,” I tell him, as if I’m referring to a loo stall.
“I didn’t realise cleaning cupboards could be reserved.” Heglances around. “Either way, it’s big enough for the both of us,” he says, his voice so smooth, settling onto the bench in front of me. At least, if he noticed me crying, he’s acting like he didn’t.Good.
Maybe I should freak out, but I don’t feel the slightest bit threatened by him. I feel oddly comfortable, but I’d much rather be alone.
I glare at him slightly. “Do you usually spend your time in cleaning cupboards?”
“Do you?” he counters.
He got me there.
“Touche,” I reply, feeling my breathing and my voice sound every second less like I had been crying a few moments ago. “But I have a reason to be here.”
“So do I.”
“What is it?” I press, thinking that if I find out why he’s here, maybe I can convince him to leave.
He leans back, as if settling in for a long chat. “You first.”
I narrow my eyes. “I was here first, so…no, you first.”
While you can’t reserve a cleaning cupboard in this nightclub, I was here first, so I do feel entitled to it. Besides, the only reason there are benches here at all is because TJ and I put them in.
He sighs. “Fine. I needed a respite.” He points outside. “It’s really crowded out there.” That is something I can understand. Then, he takes off his mask. “And I needed to take this mask off. It’s been bothering me all night,” he adds, and I nearly go full fangirl when I realise he’s Benedict Glounger—theBenedict Glounger. You know, the one from that Netflix romantic hit showThe Britentel,set in London during the Regency era. I’ve binge-watched every season the moment it came out.
