Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
God. It hurt.
My chest began to ache but I stood tall. “It’s okay, Connor. You can yell at me. Hit me. Hate me. I don’t care.” I swallowed hard, licking my lips. “As long as you’re alive for it.”
Without waiting for a response, I walked away.
“Emmy,” he called out softly.
I kept moving.
“Emily!” He was becoming frantic.
My heart could only take so much.
“Emmy, come back! Baby, please!”
Tears fell from my lashes as he bellowed out one last thing, utterly desperate.
“I need you!”
Feeling lower than dirt, I wept the entire way home.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I Don’t Fuck With You.
Emmy
Life went on for everyone on the outside. It was hard on all of us but I had done the right thing. It was high time I bit the bullet and let the truth out. I needed to tell everyone about the marriage between Connor and me. The guys were completely shocked, the girls not so much. I asked them all to keep quiet and when they made their promises, I had no doubt that news would not travel outside of our friendship group.
It had been eighty-eight days since I’d seen Connor. Noah kept me updated on his progress when I asked about him and remained quiet when I didn’t. Time passed slowly and although I went about the motions of life, a cold numbness shadowed me everywhere I went. My smile dulled. My laugh came out forced. I felt a withdrawal of my own. Only mine couldn’t be cured with rehab.
I knew the exact moment Connor completed his stint in rehab. I knew this because he posted a selfie on his InstaFotto account. I wasn’t following him but Cherry was and she told me about it which, of course, meant I stalked his account from the shadows of the web.
@ConnorClashOfficial posted, I’m back, bitches.
I couldn’t help but smile. He looked good, so much better than he had when I left him, and his smile was wide and so purely Connor it made my stomach dip.
A notification sounded on my phone.
@ConnorClashOfficial followed you.
Then a moment later, another notification.
@ConnorClashOfficial tagged you in a post.
My eyes widened.
Oh, no.
I clicked on it as quickly as I could and frowned when a photo of The Violet Dame appeared on Connor’s thread. It was a shoot I’d done with The Vixens only weeks ago. The image was black and white, and I stood in the center of the image wearing white, skintight latex pants and a tiny cropped tank top, my legs braced as I pressed a baseball bat into the ground, using it as a crutch. My signature black lips were curled, my head slightly tilted as I winked at the camera. I was barefoot, my hair was lightly curled and my boobs were barely contained in the barely there tank top.
The caption underneath said, Who is she?
And my gut coiled in on itself.
Oh my God.
Connor was going to out me. I was stunned.
I could not believe him.
“Asshole,” I seethed.
After all he’d done, he was out for blood?
Was he serious?
I had nothing left to give. I was so tired of this.
Couldn’t we just pretend we never met? Because I would really like that.
The next day, I received another notification and my heart began to race.
@ConnorClashOfficial tagged you in a post.
Jesus. Not again.
Another photo of me, this time from an online tabloid where I had twisted back to Cherry, smirking, giving the photographer a great view of my curved backside. The black latex dress I wore was tank style and tightened around the knees, making it hard to walk, but it did highlight my figure. The black, six-inch, leather, lace-up ankle boots also made it hard to walk in but looked great.
And Connor wrote, Dat Ass #KillerQueen
Oh shit. What?
I didn’t understand.
What was he trying to do?
Quite suddenly, my numbers started to grow, where Connor had fourteen million followers, I had just over one million and I considered that a huge feat. I mean, one million people were going through my InstaFotto account.
How bizarre.
But every time Connor tagged me in a post, that number doubled, then tripled, and five days later, I was sitting at a baffling seven million followers.
Weeks passed and every single day, Connor added yet another photo of The Violet Dame. Every single day, another racy and suggestive caption followed.
One day, it was a photo of me in my signature latex, a little skintight number that had a black busty halter with a bright pink pencil skirt, to which Connor wrote, Holy Shit. #YES.
My eyes were downcast but there was a slight smirk on my lips, my long, violet hair running down my back, my lips in Midnight Dream, my cupid’s bow accentuated considerably.
Another day, it was the photo of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue I’d done. The dark brown latex one-piece was high at the waist and low at the front. My breasts were nicely lifted and my nipples were present to the party. My lips were pouty and my eyes had a nice “come hither” thing going on. Connor’s caption read, Jesus fucking CHRIST. #WorkIt.