Page 50 of Sexting His Son's Ex
Apartment three.
I don’t knock.
I kick his door down, the wood splintering off the hinges. I draw my gun, cocking it and find Anthony sitting on his couch, a gaming controller in hand.
He shouts, raising his hands in the air as multiple gunshots sound from the TV.
“What the fuck? Mr. Salvati? Holy shit, I swear to God, I didn’t do it. I haven’t done anything. I promise. I?—”
I press the gun against his temple, his body trembling with fear.
“Your life depends on the information you’re going to give me.”
“I’ll tell you anything. Name it. You won’t get a fight from me.” He swallows, his body frozen where he sits.
“Who paid you to deliver the flowers to me? And don’t bullshit me about not knowing what I’m talking about. I don’t give a fuck to put a bullet in your skull.”
He shakes his head. “Aw man, I knew it. I knew this would come back to me. I told her. I warned her not to do it, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
I grit my teeth together, applying more pressure to his temple, the barrel leaving an imprint on his skin. “I don’t have time for your rambling. Who the fuck was it?”
“Jovie! Jovie Morgan! She owns the Flower Shop down the street. That’s it. That’s all I know. I don’t know why she sent them.”
I drop the gun, stunned by what he just said. “You’re sure? There’s no fucking way it was her.”
“It was her! She paid me every time. I have invoices to prove it.”
I’m angry at myself for not listening to my instincts sooner. I knew deep down that it was Jovie. She’s a good liar. I’ll give her that. I never thought she would do something like this or be interested in someone older.Was I joke to her?
I hate being played and I hate playing childish games.
“Let your landlord know about your door. I’d hate to fine you again.” I tuck my weapon in my waistband and march out of the apartment.
If Jovie thinks she can get away from me, she clearly has no idea how far I’ll go.
She’ll never be free of me.
15
JOVIE
The doorto the shop rings and I jump, thinking Santino has found me. Ever since I stopped all communications with him, there’s been a pit in my stomach. I know I’m not going to get away with what I did. I’m on borrowed time.
“Hey, Ms. Morgan!” Jared, the mailman waves at me with a big bright smile on his face.
I raise my hands in the air, covered in soil. I also plant my own flowers. It’s my goal to renovate the backyard into a beautiful garden and I can cut and sell my own flowers, eventually. “I’m afraid I’m a mess, Jared. Am I good at making bouquets? Yes. Do I have a green thumb? Eh, I’m working on it.”
Jared’s loud chuckle has me smile. He runs his fingers through his thick white beard, reminding me of Santa Clause. “You’ll figure it out. It took my Missy nearly her whole life to perfect her garden. Takes the time you’re willing to give it. No one is ever perfect at anything. As long as you keep going, you’ll know more than someone else.”
I beam at him, wiping my hands on a ruined towel. “Thank you, Jared. So? Any good mail for me?”
He knows what I’m asking about.
Last year, I applied to go to the largest flower shows in the country. It’s a great networking opportunity to work with the best flower vendors, win a chance at one hundred thousand dollars, and be a florist for a celebrity’s wedding. I mean, only the best of the best gets to go to this show and only the best of everyone wins.
Acceptance letters went out a few months ago and I haven’t received mine yet. I have tried to not think about it and push it into the back of my mind, doing my best to forget about it. I’m young and the chances of being invited are slim to none.
Still, I can’t hide the smallest flame of hope that has dared to continue to flicker about it.
