Free Sidelined by Emma Hart Page B

I’m coming ‘round tonight, and you’re going to finish your essay. Then I’m going to feed you, and you’re going to fuck me. How’s that for a Monday night?”
    “Damn better than Monday morning,” I admit. “But I really, really have to get this done with no distractions. So, sorry. No. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    “Bullshit. It’s been just under a fucking week and you haven’t called once. Sick of you calling my bluff, baby, so I’m calling yours. You got two choices: I come over or I come over. What do you pick?”
    Three loud knocks sound at my door, and I get up. “I’d like to put it to the public vote.” I rest my hand on the door handle and pull it down. “And I swear to shit, Jack. If this is you at my fucking door—”
    But it isn’t.
    Fuck.
    It isn’t.
    “What the…” I breathe, staring at the guy in front of me.
    Perfectly coiffed, light-brown hair. Clean jaw. Soft, brown eyes.
    My heart pounds painfully in my chest, and I can hear Jack saying my name into my ear, but all I can focus on is the rush of blood around my body and the tightness of my throat. The utter disbelief tinged with bitterness and betrayal flooding through my veins, each pound more deafening and consuming in the last.
    “What the hell are you doing here?”
    Mitch lifts a hand toward my face. It hovers then for a moment, and I freeze, my eyes falling on it. He inches it toward me before pausing. Then he drops it.
    “Mace, we gotta talk, baby.”
    My gaze moves from his hand at his side up to his eyes. “I’m not your fucking baby, asshole.”
    Then I slam the door in his face.

A loud bang travels down the line and I freeze.
    “M? Baby?” I half yell, drawing the attention of people around me. “Fuckin’ talk to me, dammit!”
    “On second thought,” she finally replies, totally calm. “Come on over. Bring tequila. And lemons. A lot of lemons.”
    “I bought a big-ass bottle of tequila last week.”
    “Yeah, well.” A cabinet door shuts. “Chances are it’s gonna be gone by the time you get here.”
    Then the line goes dead.
    Fuck.
    It doesn’t take a fucking genius to work out who was just at her apartment. And he better hope that his sorry, cheating ass is far away from her by the time I get there.
    I shove the cart around to the alcohol aisle and grab a bottle of tequila before I dial Leah’s number.
    “What’s up, buttercup?” she answers.
    “Macey’s favorite comfort food. Now.”
    “What?”
    “Fuck, Leah. I don’t have time for your shit.”
    “Warm cookie dough,” she replies hurriedly. “What’s wrong?”
    “Call her in one hour.” I hang up and swing the cart to the register. I pay for my items and all but throw the bags in the trunk of the car.
    And I swear to fuck I’ve never driven out of a parking lot as fast as I am right now.
    I honk my horn several times because I actually want this fucktard to be there when I get there. I want to walk past him and know I’m walking up to her while he’s walking down from her.
    I slam the brakes in the lot outside Macey’s apartment and grab the grocery bags from the trunk. I’ve barely pressed the buzzer when the door opens, but it isn’t from Macey. The guy walking through it is tall, clean cut, and well kept, and the look on his face is nothing short of pissed off.
    He looks up, our eyes meeting briefly, and passes me. I grab the door to stop it from closing, and I’m halfway through it when he says, “Jack Carr, right?”
    I turn my face toward the guy. “That’s me. Who’s askin’?”
    “You going up to see Macey?”
    “Who’s askin’?” I repeat, my voice hardening.
    This is the fucker whp broke her.
    “The guy she dated for three years.”
    “Yeah, well, it’s a real fuckin’ shame for you that she isn’t dating you anymore, huh?” I raise my eyebrows. “Now, you gonna get your ass the fuck away from my girl or do I hafta make you, Mitch?”
    His face whitens. I’m not sure if it’s the deliberate use of