Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(93)

I get more fidgeting, more avoiding eye contact.

“Lance?”

“I used to give her what she wanted.”

“Which was?”

“To take care of the situation.”

He’s not going to come out and say it, and I can’t blame him. I need to find a way to say what I want to without him shutting down.

“Did you want it to happen or did you let it?”

“Let.”

“Why?”

“What?” He glances up.

“Why would you let that happen if you didn’t want it to?”

“Because she expected it. Because I thought maybe eventually I’d be enough. Because I didn’t think I deserved to have what I wanted.”

My heart breaks for him. “What if I wanted that? Would you let it happen?”

His face crumples. “You would never want that.”

“How do you know?” I’m not asking to hurt him, but because I want to understand his thought process.

“You’re not like that. You’re too precious for that.” His voice is hard, like stone.

I place a palm against his cheek, hoping to calm the sudden surge of energy that seems to course through him. “You’re right. I would never ask that of you. I value you more than that.”

His fingers cover mine.

“Why don’t you deserve what you want?”

“I’ve done a lot of bad things. I’m trying to rearrange the way I think about it.” He sighs. “I want to be with you. I want to be what you need. That’s all I want. I tried to avoid her. I really tried, but she can’t seem to let this go.”

I key in the passcode to my phone, because I need to see whatever it is that’s causing him such distress. I check the most obvious accounts first, and then I finally come across an unfamiliar name.

“Natasha is Tash?” I ask.

Lance closes his eyes and bows his head.

I open the message. My throat tightens.

I try not to react to it immediately or look at it with judging eyes. It’s difficult, though. Everything about this picture screams lies and deceit. But then I force myself to look without emotions, ignoring my aching heart, so I can see it for what it is.

I know this woman—the one smiling at the camera. The one lying on a bed of white sheets with Lance’s big body. She’s naked, or topless at least, based on the bare expanse of her back. She was the one who came to the house the morning after I stayed the night at Lance’s a year ago.

She’s gorgeous and in amazing shape, much better than what my twice-a-week yoga routine yields. We look absolutely nothing alike.

Lance is stretched out on top of her. But while she smiles for the camera, he looks like he wants to rip someone’s head off. He’s wearing boxers. It’s better than him being naked, but not by much. A million unwanted scenarios rush through my mind, despite what Lance has told me, and despite my trying to keep perspective.

I push the phone toward him. “This is what you wanted to explain?”

“As soon as they came in the room, she climbed into bed with me and tried to take pictures. I was trying to get the camera from her so she couldn’t post them, and her friend snapped that one. I know how it looks, though, which is why I wanted to be here when you saw it.” He covers the image with his palm.

I’m grateful. It’s like a train wreck. I can’t look away, even though I want to. His hand is the shield I need.

“Is this going to end up all over social media?” I have to consider what that will be like, how difficult it will be to defend my relationship with him. How humiliating it will be.

“No. This is the only copy of that picture left.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I deleted all of them.”

“All of them? There were more?”

“Tash tried to take a few, but they were blurry.”

Of all the conversations I’ve had over the years concerning exes, this is definitely the most unorthodox. “Is she going to keep contacting me?”

“I don’t know. She’s vindictive, but I told her not to. It wouldn’t take much for me to cause her a lot of problems if she does. It won’t look good for her that she’s still been in contact with me after everything that happened.”

“Do you think she’ll send me other things? Pictures? Messages? Videos?”

“There aren’t any videos, but we were together for a while. She’ll have old pictures of her and me.”

I consider what may lie ahead. Dating someone like Lance puts a spotlight on me. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage that. Or if I can. What if things like this keep happening?

“Did she call the night before you went away?”

“Aye.”

“And you talked to her?” My chest feels tight. If I’d asked this question before he’d gone, would we still be dealing with this mess?

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because she won’t leave me alone if I don’t answer. It had been weeks of her bullshit before I did.”

“Why not block her?”

“I have. I did. She messaged from someone else’s phone.”

That makes sense, but it still doesn’t answer the most important question. “Why didn’t you tell me about her before you went away? Why lie?”