The Lover’s Game (No Exceptions #2)(11)
Author: J.C. Reed

Getting inside and locking up was the only coherent thought I could form. As fast as my legs could carry me, I sprinted back to our apartment and slammed the door. My legs were trembling with so much force that I had to lean against the wall to stop them from giving out on me. My breathing was labored and as loud as a whistling train, and my mind kept obsessing over the identity of the person outside.

Could it have been Jett?

It had to be. I wouldn’t have been surprised. He had always been sort of dominant, never taking “no” for an answer. The last time I had failed to answer his calls or texts, he tracked me down. I settled on him as the most obvious explanation; any other possibility would scare me too much.

Taking another sip, I leaned back against the cushions and pressed the cold glass of water against my throbbing temple. My eyelids felt heavily and I let them fall, the disturbing images of Jett with another woman drifting at the back of my mind and cruelly dancing there as I fell asleep.

***

From the periphery of my mind, I heard the muffled sound of a key turning in a lock and a door jiggling. Confused and disoriented, my head snapped in the direction of the noise. One quick glance at the clock revealed that I had dozed off for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes since someone had knocked at the door. Was it possible that whoever had been outside had hung around that long?

I jumped out of the bed, straining to listen for any more noises over my unnaturally loud puffs of breath. Finally, feet shuffled somewhere, and my heart began to hammer hard against my chest.

A door opened slowly and closed.

Not just any door. The door to our apartment.

Fear grabbed a hold of me as the realization kicked in that whoever had been inside the building might have entered the apartment. All it’d take was the knowledge to pick a lock.

Retrieving the baseball bat Sylvie had once given me as a joke, in case we were ever burgled, I hid behind the door, mentally preparing myself to do whatever it took to protect myself and my child. My steps were slow and measured as I inched forward and raised the bat high, at head level, ready to bash. Eventually, the door to my room opened slowly.

“Brooke? Are you here?” Sylvie’s blonde head popped into my line of vision. Her eyes widened with shock when she caught a glimpse of me. “Oh, my God, Brooke.” She pressed a manicured hand against her chest and took a step back, her eyes filled with surprise and fear. “You scared the living shit out of me. I saw the lights switched on in your room, and I thought someone broke in. I almost called the cops, but then I let myself in and saw your shoes and handbag. Why didn’t you just—” She stopped abruptly. A deep frown crossed her features as she eyed my face and then the baseball bat in my hand. “Are you okay?”

No, I wasn’t okay, but where would I even begin?

It was all too much to deal with. My frayed nerves caused my hands and knees to tremble. I dropped to the floor, back pressed against the wall. All the tension I thought was gone, returned in an instant and stronger than before. I didn’t even know where to begin. After all the crying and the self-blaming, I felt like an empty shell of myself.

“Brooke?” She inched closer and gently took the baseball bat out of my hands before she sat down next to me. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug.

For a while, we sat there in the stillness, her warmth and touch the only thing that felt real. It was only after my limbs stopped shaking that I told her everything: the bad, the worse, and the blackest moment in my life. Recounting my memories almost ripped a hole in my chest, and yet, while the pain was all consuming, I didn’t cry—because all the tears I had for him were gone.

Chapter 7

By the time I finished talking, Sylvie had almost emptied an entire bottle. When I insisted that she pour me a glass—not to drink it but to stop her from polishing it off—she adamantly refused.

“You can’t drink in your condition.” She patted my hand gently, her eyes blazing with anger. In all my life, I had never seen her so upset, especially when it should have been me who was full of fury. Sylvie wasn’t the crier in our friendship. That was all me. Or at least had been upon finding out that Jett was cheating on me. Now my tears were depleted, and anger and humiliation had taken their place.

“Why are you crying?” I asked stunned.

“I’m not.” She wiped a hand over her eyes to get rid of the telltale moisture at the corners.

“You’re lying.”

“Really, I’m not. It’s just…” A muffled sob escaped her chest.

“Please don’t,” I said with enough determination to get her attention, afraid that her breakdown might tug at my own emotions.

“It just hurts me so much to see you in pain.”

I had no reply for that. “It’s okay. I’m fine. I got a job, and it pays well,” I said at last, changing the subject.

“It’s not okay, Brooke.” She looked up at me sternly. “Don’t do that. Don’t just brush it all under the rug and pretend it’s not there.” She pulled a tissue from a Kleenex box and began to crumple it. “How could he cheat on you? You’re perfect, Brooke. What the f**k is he doing with her when you’re carrying his child? He was supposed to propose and marry you, not f**k the next girl. That isn’t just a low blow.” She inhaled a sharp breath, her eyes shimmering with the fury of a scorned woman. “It’s the lowest thing any man could do. This is so f**king upsetting I feel like hurting him.”

I smiled, touched by her loyalty. Luckily for the both of us, Sylvie was all talk, but not exactly a believer in violence. It was just the wine speaking. I could hear the liquid courage in the slur of her voice.

“Shit happens, Sylvie. You know that.” I stroked her back in a soothing manner, but was only rewarded with a few tears trickling down her face.

“But you don’t deserve it.”

“I know,” I murmured. “No one ever does.” Seeing her crying and caring so much about me, even when drunk, made me realize just how much I had missed her in the weeks since I moved out. I could almost feel the intensity of her pain—as though she was more hurt than me. My vision blurred, but I didn’t want to cry. My head was already throbbing so hard I was afraid it might burst.

Another tear rolled down her cheek, and she sniffled.

“Stop,” I whispered. As hard as I tried to keep my own tears at bay, I failed.

“I can’t help it,” Sylvie said. “I hate what he did to you. I hate that he lied. He could have at least had the balls to tell the truth.” She took another sip from her glass.