Page 117 of Vicious Butterfly
“You don’t have time to text me?” I cringe at my own responses. But, I mean, it’s valid, right?
“Is that what you’d like?” he says in bored tones, as if he can’t wait for this conversation to be done. Guess I really am just another collectable. It was cute when he was hot for me, interested, fucking obsessed with me. Now, it’s devastating.
Oh, God. What kind of egomaniac am I? I loved how obsessed he was with me.
“Don’t break your back over it, but no more thumbs-up reactions or emojis. Vetoed.”
“Vetoed? What’s wrong with a thumbs up?”
“Everyone knows it’s fucking rude.”
“Not me.” Right, I guess the man is more than ten years older than me. It was probably acceptable in his era. It’s probably the only form of react they had on whatever archaic form of messaging app they were using back then. “Which emojis are permitted?”
“I’d prefer words, but I want the heart emoji. Anything that contains a heart is fine—heart eyes, heart kiss, you get the idea.” Yeah, it’s gonna givemyheart the wrong idea, but I should get my delusion.
“Alright. Anything else?”
“Yeah, we might need to move up the part of the plan where you get Griff and me out of here.”
“Are you in danger?”
I sigh. “No, I just hate it here.”
“Then we need to wait until the end of the season, when I become commissioner. As planned.”
I hate how cold he sounds. No dollface. Or baby. Anxious panic thrums against my insides. I take a slow breath. Maybe marrying him was a huge mistake. He’s got me now, no need to appease me.
I stare at the empty spot on my finger where a ring should go. “Yeah, fine.”
“Anything else?”
It’s like I’m a chore. A bother. But fuck him. He said anything I wanted. “They’re trying to make Griff enlist. My father scheduled the medical exam for next week.”
“Easy. I’ll take care of it.”
That feeling comes over me again, the one that sets my insides adrift and warms them. My eyes burn with wetness. “Okay.”
That’s enough to get me through another week of not hearing from him. He keeps his promise to stop using the stupid thumbs-up react, but instead, he doesn’t react at all, and I almost want to take back what I said about that stupid fucking emoji. My messages go unanswered. A little junk pile of text bubbles.
But when next week comes, the doctor doing Griff’s exam looks suspiciously like Ethan—I don’t want to know what Tate did with the real doctor—and Griff spectacularly fails the exam. Father will send someone else, or North Point will bring someone in, but Tate pulled through, and we have more time.
So, I might be left on read as my fucking heart withers, but this was the sacrifice to keep Griff safe, and I’ll gladly pay.
That doesn’t mean I won’t make my dear husband pay for ignoring me.
19
TATE
Mid to Late January
Aloud crash breaks through the murk of my mind, and I latch onto it. I’ll take a distraction right now. Any distraction. I storm down the stairs, feet rattling the metal steps. Before I descend the last one, I have to take a step back, so I don’t trip over the two battling masses of muscles, otherwise known as Tyler and Rocky, two of my guards.
Normally, I’d demand to know what the fuck is going on, but I sense an intriguing drama, and drama distracts from the gash in my chest that refuses to repair itself no matter what I try to fill it with—booze, drugs, food, and even Patrick’s friendship. I went forcoffeewith the man.
But no need to think about that; I have … whatever this is.
They don’t notice me, too engaged in their wrestling match to detect anything around them. I don’t even care that they’re not doing their job.
