Page 32 of Game Misconduct

It’s not stalking. It’s not, I tell myself. I’m just looking out for her. Protecting her.

From what, I don’t know. Maybe myself. Maybe herself.

The bartender sets a glass in front of me, and I murmur my thanks.

Bex swivels her head toward me and levels me with a glare. I lift my drink in acknowledgment, but make no move to approach her. After a few moments, she returns her attention to her book, and I heave a soft sigh and stare into the depths of my glass.

Why does it have to be this way? I’d give anything not to have these cyclical thoughts, to treat her as any other puck bunny and erase her from my memory. Chalk her up to a quick release and nothing more.

Instead, I have so many unanswered questions. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to nail her down and have the conversation we desperately need. Especially not with her glaring at me every ten seconds. I can hope, though.

Until then, I’ll keep my distance, but I won’t go far. I’ll keep an eye out for her. And I’ll quietly drown in my self-torture.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out and glance at the display.

Sperm Donor: I here your back in boston.

Bitterness turns to acid in the back of my throat, and I swallow the bile threatening to overtake me. I want to mute him, block him, delete him from my life. But I can’t bring myself to actually do it. I should have known my reprieve wouldn’t last long, though.

I shouldn’t respond. I can’t respond.

But somehow, my fingers type and type and type. I write out an entire essay, all the pain and loathing that’s consumed me since he robbed me of my mother.

And then I delete it. No good will come from confronting him. No matter how much better it will make me feel, fanning the flames will only make the fire between us burn more intensely.

Raising my bourbon, I take a sip, then lick the stickiness from my lips. The heavy weight of eyes on me makes me turn my head, and I catch Bex’s gaze fixed on me—on my mouth.

I arch an eyebrow, and her cheeks pinken at being caught, but her gaze turns flinty.

Heat runs through me, coalescing into a ball deep in my gut. Fuck, her hatred of me shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does. Maybe there’s more wrong with me than I thought.

Bex snaps her tablet case closed, then steps down from her barstool. She strides past me, her shoulder knocking into mine as she passes.

“Have a good night,” I call after her.

She raises her hand, the middle finger extended, but she doesn’t look back.

I take one last gulp of my drink, then slide the half-full glass away. I’m done. I’m so done.