Misery etches all over his face for the pain he’s caused. He merely nods, then puts the truck in gear.
I lean against the passenger door, my head against the glass as he drives me home. The silence is comforting.
I don’t bother to change how I know it’ll go. When we get there, I let him help me out of the truck. If I’d tried to resist, he’d only insist on it, just like he’ll insist on walking me to the door. So, I let him walk by my side while I clutch the phone holding that awful picture to my chest.
When I reach my door, I turn to face him, essentially stopping his progress onto my porch. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?” he inquires hesitantly, but there’s an edge to his tone. He knows exactly what I mean.
“Can’t date you. See you anymore. It’s too hard for me.”
“Because of a silly social media post?” he asks defiantly.
I’m actually stunned he’d make light of it, which fuels my anger. “Silly? It is humiliating. Just like Tripp did—”
“You need to back the fuck up,” he snarls, throwing his palm up. “Don’t you dare lump me in with that asshole. Tripp did something to you—I did not.”
“You posted a picture on social media,” I accuse.
“So what?” he says. “I posted a pic because I was proud to be with you. I wanted to show my fans who I’d fucking fallen for. It’s not my goddamn fault it somehow got turned into something else.”
I’m stunned speechless. The power of words fails me at the mention of him falling for me. I mean… what exactly does that mean?
I shake my head, the bitter feelings pushing aside any warm emotions or curiosities his declaration tried to build up within me. My pride won’t let me explore it.
Because it doesn’t matter. At this moment, I can’t see past the shame of being a joke to the entire world. Again. This won’t be the last time it happens, either.
“I’m not cut out to be in the spotlight like that,” I say imploringly… begging him to please understand where I’m coming from. “I thought I could deal with it, but I can’t.”
“So that’s it? You just want to end things?” he asks with a harsh laugh.
Well, shit… the thought of never seeing Aaron again makes me feel like I want to die. “I don’t know,” I practically wail. “I just know this is the same stuff I went through before. Now, because of you, it’s all riled up again, and maybe… maybe I just need some time to think about this.”
Aaron takes a step back, and I can tell he’s pissed. His sympathy doesn’t last long. “You know what? Take all the damn time you want. I’m out of here.”
He pivots sharply and bounds down the steps, muttering curses in his wake. He doesn’t look back, but angrily hops in his truck and stomps the gas, squealing tires as he leaves.
Dropping to the top step, I stare morosely down the street until his taillights fade away. Realizing I’m still clutching my phone hard in my hand, which is now aching, I pull it away from my chest. The meme glares back harshly.
A surge of anger sweeps through me and I cock my arm back, slamming the phone down onto the concrete sidewalk as hard as I can. It shatters as I expected it to, but at least that horrid meme isn’t in my face anymore.
Wrapping my arms around my shins, I put my head on my lap and start to cry.
CHAPTER 25
Wylde
“Dude… you are practically vibrating,” Tacker says, his hand coming down on my shoulder. I glance down at the folder in my hand, gripping it tightly. “You need to take a couple of deep breaths before you go in there,” he warns.
In there would be the conference room we’re standing outside of in the downtown Los Angeles offices of Frank Cannon. The walls are heavy paneled oak, but there’s a vertical pane of glass beside the heavy wooden door and I can see Frank. He sits at a large conference room table with what appears to be a very nervous Tripp Horschen, who repetitively tugs on his tie.
Dominik ended up calling in a huge favor for me, and he’d arranged a telephone call between Frank Cannon and me. I should have felt stupid laying out such a plan, but I didn’t. After Clarke essentially broke up with me four days ago, I was more committed than ever on raining retribution down on the man who broke the woman I love, who made it impossible for her to accept me.
To my surprise, Frank thought my plan was brilliant. He’s always been known as a bit of a strange duck, but he’s so highly respected for his creativity and brilliance it’s probably not so surprising he was more than happy to play a role in my revenge plot.
His role wasn’t extensive, but it was important. He had his people reach out to Tripp’s agent to express interest in casting him in an upcoming Frank Cannon film. Of course, Frank would never do such a thing. His films commanded the most elite Hollywood actors and actresses. Purely A-listers. Tripp couldn’t even be considered B-list at this point. My investigator gave me a summary of his less-than-stellar acting career, which included the popular soap opera he was on, which was admittedly a success, but, since then, he’s not been able to break into anything big. I knew he’d jump at the chance to have a face-to-face with the undisputed king of directors.
Of course, the guy is an idiot to actually think someone like Frank Cannon would be truly interested in him. If Tripp had an ounce of brains, he might have considered this was a setup.
I’m glad he’s stupid because he’s waiting in there right now with no clue what he’s about to get hit with.
Frank doesn’t have a lot of time to spare, so he’s only engaging Tripp for a few minutes before he stands from the table. The plan is for him to bring me in for an introduction, then leave to give us privacy so Frank doesn’t become an accomplice.
Tripp nods as Frank moves around the table to open the door.
“Good luck,” Tacker murmurs, but I don’t reply. I’m so thankful he came out to Los Angeles with me to do this. It’s been a bro trip, through and through, and he’s steadied me greatly. When we arrived yesterday, I just wanted to go to Tripp’s house and stomp his ass into the ground. Tacker talked me down, as a best friend should.
Frank gives me a wink when I step into the conference room. I wait until he exits, then close the door behind him.
Brows furrowing in confusion, Tripp half rises from the table, unsure of who I am. I can see he thinks he knows me, but he’s not quite sure. Unless he’s a super hockey fan, maybe not. If he’s been following the rising trend of the new meme with Clarke and me, though, he’ll know.
Tripp straightens, deciding to offer me a smile as he buttons his suit jacket. He even sticks his hand out for me to shake, but I ignore it. “I’m Aaron Wylde,” I say as I round the corner of the table, moving toward him. “Does that name ring a bell?”
“Um,” he hedges, still not quite sure.
“Surely you know Clarke Webber, right?” My voice is low and dangerous. Recognition flares in his eyes as I come toe to toe with him. I give him a solid push backward, and his knees catch the back of his chair. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
Tripp sits, but he immediately holds his hands up. “Look, man… I don’t know what you think you’re doing interrupting my important meeting with Mr. Cannon.”