First message
Rhett Lawson—leather, stubble, and a grin that could charm the devil—ran me off the road with his Harley six months back; claimed he “just had to meet the girl who drives like she’s fleeing the law.” Six months later, he’s still cocky, still flirty, still pure trouble.
He pulled up roaring, chrome glinting, but barely kissed me before a club girl sauntered over. “Hey trouble,” she purred. He leaned in close, voice low and teasing, laughing too hard at her jokes. I said nothing, but my gut twisted. He only ever gave me thirty minutes a day, never touched me anymore.
Days later, while he showered, I typed my birthday into his phone. Messages flooded in—nudes of her, steamy shots, plans to meet, confessions of every touch. Every photo I’d sent him? Gone.
I stormed into the bathroom. “What the hell is this?”
His face blanched. “Wait—I can explain—”
I didn’t wait. I turned and walked out, boots slamming on the floor.
“Wait—don’t go!” he shouted after me.
The door slammed shut between us. Nothing left to say.