Chapter 5
1066 Words
The next day crawled by like time itself had grown claws, dragging every second across my nerves. I told myself I wouldn’t think about Rouger, wouldn’t replay the look in his eyes when he said better to run now than regret later. But my mind betrayed me at every turn. His voice lingered in my head. His scent clung to the air even after he’d left.
By the time I was slipping into my favorite black dress, tugging the zipper up my spine, my chest felt tight, as though my ribcage had been wound with barbed wire. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror, my expression caught somewhere between defiance and desperation.
You’re pathetic, Mel. Getting dolled up for a man you don’t want, just to spite the one you do.
I smoothed a hand over the fitted fabric, adjusted the neckline, then tugged my nose ring into place like it was armor. My heels clicked against the hardwood as I crossed the room, the sound sharp, decisive.
Maybe if I looked perfect, I could convince myself I didn’t care. Maybe if I let another man’s eyes linger on me, it would smother the memory of Rouger’s.
Liar.
A knock sounded at the door, polite and predictable. Not the heavy, commanding thud I’d grown used to from Rouger. My chest tightened again. I forced a smile, grabbed my clutch, and opened the door.
Braden stood there, leaning casually against the frame. Tall, clean-cut, with dark hair that never fell out of place and a smile that looked rehearsed in a mirror. His button-down shirt was crisp, his cologne subtle. Everything about him screamed safe.
Safe bored me.
“Wow,” he said, eyes scanning me with obvious approval. “You look incredible.”
I tilted my head, lips curving in a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Thanks. Shall we?” I asked.
He offered his arm. I took it, even though the gesture felt stiff, unnatural.
Outside, the night air was cool against my bare skin, carrying the faint hum of cicadas and the occasional rumble of a distant bike engine. My pulse spiked at the sound. My head turned automatically, scanning the street.
But of course, there was no Rouger.
Braden led me to his car, a sleek black sedan that hummed politely when he started it. I slid into the passenger seat, already missing the raw growl of Rouger’s Harley: the vibration, the danger, the way it wrapped around me like a living beast.
Dinner was at a trendy restaurant downtown, the kind with Edison bulbs hanging low and menus printed on recycled paper. Couples filled the tables, their laughter and low conversation creating a steady hum. I sat across from Braden, smiling when appropriate, nodding at his stories.
He was charming, in the kind of way that came prepackaged. His laugh was polite. His anecdotes felt rehearsed, polished for maximum effect.
I sipped my wine, letting the flavor roll over my tongue without tasting it.
God, he’s so normal. Too normal. Where’s the roughness? The edge? The fire?
“So, Melanie,” Braden leaned forward, his smile warm, “tell me more about your writing. I find it fascinating.”
I forced another smile, setting my glass down. “It’s just a hobby. Nothing serious.”
The words felt like betrayal. Writing wasn’t just a hobby—it was my release, my sanity, my secret fire…my living. But how could I explain that to someone who looked at me like a shiny trophy, not a woman full of contradictions?
“Oh, come on,” he pressed, enthusiasm lighting his features. “I’ve always thought about writing a book. Maybe you could give me some tips?”
Tips? God, kill me now.
I nodded politely, biting back the sigh that clawed at my throat. “Maybe.”
He reached across the table, fingers brushing mine. The touch was feather-light, careful. Too careful. My body responded with nothing but a yawn of indifference.
Rouger would never touch me like this. He’d grab, claim, burn. The thought seared me from the inside, leaving Braden’s touch cold, empty.
The meal dragged on, each course another reminder of how utterly mismatched we were. Braden laughed at his own jokes. I smiled, but my lips felt brittle. My mind wandered again and again to the man who haunted me, the one I couldn’t have.
When the check finally came, I exhaled in relief I tried to disguise as a polite smile. Braden, oblivious, suggested a movie. I agreed, because saying no felt like admitting too much.
The theater was dark, cool, smelling faintly of buttered popcorn and fabric cleaner. We sat in the back row, Braden’s arm finding its way around my shoulders in a practiced move that probably worked on a dozen girls before me.
I tried to focus on the screen, but my phone buzzed in my clutch. I slid it out, the screen lighting up with a text from an unknown number.
My breath caught.
You know you’re playing with fire, darlin’. Don’t you?
The words burned hotter than the whiskey I’d poured the night before. My pulse hammered in my throat. Rouger.
Of course it was him. His voice bled from the message, rough and dangerous even through a glowing screen. He’d seen us…he knew, and I couldn’t breathe.
Braden’s hand moved down my arm, his thumb drawing lazy circles against my skin. I flinched, pulling slightly away. His brow furrowed, confusion etched on his face in the flickering light. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lied quickly, shoving the phone back into my clutch, heart still racing.
The rest of the movie was a blur. My body sat in that theater seat, but my mind was a thousand miles away. I saw only Rouger’s eyes, burning with hunger, with possession, with something darker he couldn’t hide even in a text.
When Braden’s hand crept higher on my thigh, the only thing I could think was how wrong it felt. No spark. No fire. Just empty touches against skin that only wanted one man.
No one else will ever compare. No one will ever set me on fire the way Rouger does.
By the time Braden drove me home, the decision was already carved into my bones. Rouger wasn’t just under my skin, he was in my blood.
- Writer
