Page 92 of Serenity
“I don’t know, Duke. I’m not sure what to think. You’ve dumped a lot of info on me. You and her.”
“Do you want me to let you shower alone?”
“You’re already in here.”
The calm pirating her tone left me confounded, wary, restless.
“Can I touch you? Just to… to help you get out of these?”
“I can undress myself.”
Her rejection splintered me. Peeling her legs out of the pants, she tossed them in a pile next to my clothes just outside the shower door. We cleansed our salty, sweat-ridden skin in silence, absent the usual ardent touches and deep kisses—with her averting her gaze when I turned to face her. The distance she dealt cramped the air around us, making it difficult to breathe, much less speak. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like that shit one bit.
Cutting the water overhead, I grabbed a towel from the heated warmer and gave it to Serenity, repeating the movement to dry myself as well. She wrapped her body in the cloth, preparing to exit.
“Hey.”
Turning to face me, her eyes held a blank expression. So far removed from the endearing, nurturing Serenity I knew, it was both alarming and disarming.
“Yes?”
“Are we okay?”
Defenseless and exposed, I ached to know what was on her mind and in her heart, so I…checked in.
“I need to process this, and I don’t think I can do that here.”
“You’re leaving me?”
The nuance of that question… So many meanings. So many undertones. It tore me to bits as I braced for the impact of a response.
“I am.”
I’ll reach out to you when I’m ready to talk.
Again and again, I read the text shutting me down and discouraging further contact with the woman I craved with every breath. For the past few days, there’d been radio silence from Serenity.
I blamed myself for the ridge swelling between us. This shit had been all my fault.
My phone pinged, shifting focus to the device. Unlocking it, my eyes cemented to the text message from an unknown number, growing twice in size as I read it.
One million, or I make these videos live.
Blankly, I stared at the device before putting the screen to sleep. Mya had become a thorn in my fucking side. Armed with the knowledge that we lived in the same building, it took every ounce of restraint in me not to stalk down to her condo—a condo bill I was footing—and wring her fucking neck.
I sought no parts of the drama my ex-wife sought to lure me into. Since the day I found her in bed with my best friend, she’d begun to unravel, revealing the concealed and repugnant parts of her true self.
Now was no different.
Had she been a nigga issuing such reprehensive ass threats, she’d be in an unmarked grave somewhere. But she wasn’t. She was Mya Stepford. The woman who’d vexingly chosen to hold fast to my last name with her hands clinging to my pockets. Despite my best efforts, she’d refused to let me go.
Back and forth, I paced the plush rug in the hotel room I’d been in. The weekend in the gulf had been tiresome leaving me to reconsider if I even wanted to run the pipeline business anymore. Shit. I had the parent company. I didn’t need Colonial Pipeline.
On top of the load of stress, I now had to deal with yet another one of Mya’s tricks. Laughter pierced the air as I chuckled in delirium at her delusion. A million? It was both comical and my fucking fault that she felt so empowered to make such an asinine request. My moment of weakness—my need to be vindictive led us to the present state. I should have never armed her with the ammo to come at me the way she’d been.
If Serenity wanted space, I’d give her an entire fucking galaxy. It didn’t mean I was letting go. It didn’t mean I’d let her walk away. We both needed the time apart. In the meantime, I needed to resolve my past before allowing it to take precedence in my present. Instead of lashing out or responding to the text, I allowed the cooler, patient, more calculated head to prevail. A nigga hadn’t earned the position I was in for nothing.
WITHHOLDING