Page 65 of Faking It with a Single Dad
“You’re protecting him, aren’t you?” Miles accuses, his voice rising.
“I’m not protecting anyone.” I shake my head even though Miles can’t see me.
The emergency line picks up, and I explain that there’s a man outside my door threatening me. They tell me to hold on and that they’ll send help. I click my phone off and consider calling Tristan.
“You know your man came over to my motel tonight and almost beat me up in front of half the town?” Miles laughs bitterly. “I sort of wish he did. That would’ve been the nail in the coffin for him.”
Tristan, see him tonight?
“The cops are on their way!” I shout. “If you know what’s good for you, I suggest you leave.”
I watch Miles look around, his head craning to look down the road. “Is it the money?” He returns his gaze to the door, peering intently like he could see me. “Is that why you’re protecting a literal wife-killer who makes his wealth off selling people’s data from his tech to the government?”
Wife killer? Who the hell is this man?
“Get off my property!” I yell, slapping my hands against the door.
“I know more than you think, you know?” he smirks, pulling in smoke. “I know about the arranged relationship.”
What? How the fuck does he—
“Yes, yes, I know.” He takes the cigarette in his fingers and flicks it against my door. My head shoots back despite the door protecting me from the projectile. “This isn’t over, okay? I promise you.”
“Fuck you!” I say loud enough for him to hear.
He presses his face to the door as if to whisper, “I mean, I get the appeal. A billionaire offers a girl who probably hasn’t seen that much money in her life a million dollars. I’d fuck him and protect him, too, if I was in your shoes.”
“Why are you here?” I ask, aggressively running my hand through my hair.
I realize I’m sweating a lot more than I was when I was jogging. I dab my forehead with my hand and stare at my phone. It’s only been three minutes since I called the cops.
“Work with me.” Miles scratches his chin. “Work with me, and let’s bring this smug asshole down. Let’s put the son of a bitch in his place. What do you say, Layla?”
“I—”
“You don’t have to answer now, sweetheart.” He cocks his head. “Think it over.”
This asshole.
“There’s nothing to think over, Mr. Goldberg.” I raise my voice. “I have just one thing to say.”
“What’s that?” Miles leans in.
“Fuck you.” I slap the door, and Miles almost falls back.
He gathers himself, straightens his coat, and nods like he finally understands something.
“A million dollars is hard to turn down, yeah?” He laughs. “I’ll see you around.”
I watch him leave my doorstep, then peep down the road before crossing the quiet street and disappearing into the darkness. My legs turn to jelly, and I slump against the door till I’m seated on the carpeted floor.
As much as I try not to, Miles’ words play back in my head. He wants to bring Tristan down. That’s all I set out to do in the first place, so why am I not jumping at this opportunity? Why am I finding it hard to reconcile the Tristan I’ve come to know with a man capable of hurting Deanna?
Suddenly, my stomach turns into a roiling sea of discomfort as a wave of nausea washes over me. I stumble back from the door, my hand flying to my mouth as I try to fight back the bile rising in my throat. I fight my way to the bathroom.
What is happening to me?
Finally reaching the bathroom, I sink to my knees in front of the toilet. With a heavy heave, I empty the contents of my stomach into the bowl, the sound echoing in the small room. As I hurl, my mind runs wild with questions.