Chapter Twenty-Eight

Stephanie

I turn my phone on silent the moment I pass Alfie’s electronic sentry and pull onto the main street. Still, I can hear the damn thing vibrate when he calls or texts, which seems to be every thirty seconds.

I should pull over and figure out how to turn the vibration feature off, but that would prolong the ride home, and I really don’t want to burst into tears while I’m driving.

Honestly, I’m madder at myself than Alfie. I’m a big fan of that Maya Angelou quote, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them.” Well, I knew the truth about who Alphonse Foster was from the moment I met him, and I ignored it. I can’t blame him for that.

I don’t remember making a single turn between his house and mine, but I manage to pull into my parking lot and stumble through my front door before I break down in tears. Plopping onto the couch, I cover myself in my soft throw even though it’s warm in here and then I allow myself to wallow in misery.

I still haven’t changed the setting on my phone, so my mournful sobs and jagged breaths are punctuated with the increasingly frequent vibrations of Alfie’s calls.

“Fuck! We’re supposed to leave tomorrow night.”

Absently, I wonder if he’s calling because he has feelings for me, or if he’s worried about the trip. He’s a playboy. His brother and Zoey used that word in front of him and he didn’t correct it. Because it’s true.

I’ve never felt this foolish. He must have been patting himself on the back all these months—got a personal assistant and a fuck toy all in one. How convenient.

“I should see what he has to say,” I whisper to myself as I slip my hand into my purse to rummage for my phone. “No! How pathetic.”

I freeze, one hand in my purse, as I have a lively internal debate. I shouldn’t give a shit what he has to say, but part of me desperately wants to know.

Finally, reminding myself that I’m a grown woman and should be able to terminate a relationship with grace and dignity, I grab the phone and open the text stream. I even have the presence of mind to scroll up through dozens of texts and start at the top.

Before I read the first word, I close my eyes and give myself a pep talk.

“He’ll try to convince you that you didn’t see what you saw, didn’t hear what you heard, don’t know what you know, and don’t feel what you feel. It’s what jerks do. Then he’s going to guilt you into going with him to Ysaria. Because he needs you. Don’t fall for any of it.”

After a deep breath, I open my eyes.

I’m terribly sorry.

I know I’ve hurt you.

I should have explained the Ashley thing, should have told you about my history long before now. Before things got serious.

It wasn’t fair to you.

If I had been honest about my past from the beginning, maybe I could have proven that things with you are different.

I imagine you’re feeling terrible right now, wondering just what you mean to me. It’s crazy that I should declare it over text, but I love you, Steph. With all my heart.

My heart is thumping so loudly in my chest, I have to take deep breaths just to calm down. Even though the words are swimming on the screen because it’s hard to read through my tears, I manage to skim the rest of his texts.

They’re all just variations on a theme, saying the same things in different ways. It doesn’t change the facts, which are that he’s a playboy who spent thousands of dollars to build a sex shack for no purpose other than to entertain bimbos. I was just one in a long line of them.

My hands tremble as I wonder about so many things. The disco party? Was that something he did all the time? Did he find something dear to every woman and then feign an interest? Make them feel special?

And the little nudist moment in the backyard? I imagine he did that with all of them. Sex in the sunshine, his little tried-and-true seduction technique.

I think of all the Ashleys and Amandas who came before me being stripped bare and led along the same footpath and eased to the grass and fucked with all the mastery and abandon that a sex god like Alfie is capable of. It flies all over me.

Before I can stop myself, before I even think that I should stop myself, I respond to all those dozens of messages with two words: Fuck you

I don’t even deign to grace that message with a punctuation mark.

Well, that was stupid. It gave me the shortest moment of pleasure but reaped an immediate spate of messages.

“Sorry, Alfie. There’s nothing you can say that will make this better.” I say over the repeated rumblings of incoming texts.

I grab some water from the kitchen, make my way to my bed, and tumble into it.

Maybe it was the world-class crying jag that made me tired enough to sleep even with my world cracking apart like a broken egg. Although I fell asleep around eight, I wake up a few hours later, eyes wide, heart racing, with Alfie’s name on my lips.

Even as I rise out of bed and head for the living room to check my phone, I know I shouldn’t do it. There isn’t a power on Earth, though, that can stop me from this self-destructive act.

Scrolling from where I left off, I read the same sentiments, though phrased differently, over and over.

Until I get to the ones that came in about an hour ago, when they substantively changed.

I want to work this out, Stephanie. I love you. Although you need time to process things, I must mention that not only myself, but seven other people are depending on you to make this tour a success. I hate to remind you, but we have a signed contract.

Paragraph six of the contract you wrote states, “Employee must give two weeks’ notice to employer no matter the circumstances.”

I recall you saying something like “it’s only fair.”

That last message came through well over an hour ago. I guess that was his final volley.

My rumbling stomach reminds me I was supposed to eat a steak ages ago. As I rummage in my kitchen, settling on a bowl of Golden Grahams with no milk, I have a long, serious talk with myself.

Even if Alfie was the only person involved, I owe it to him to go on the trip with him. There are a thousand working parts, maybe six of which he’s aware of. If I’m not there, he won’t be able to pull things off. However, remembering that there are seven Others from the Zone involved gives me more clarity.

I have to go. My own words were correct—it’s only fair.

I’ll be at your house at six p.m. for the drive to the airport. You will speak only when spoken to unless it is of a business nature. You will sit as far from me as possible in any conveyance. You will stay as far from me as possible in every other circumstance.

After sending that, I realize I have more to say. Typing quickly, before he can respond, I add: I want no discussions of a personal nature, not even by text.

Three dots signaled he was typing as I shot off my last missive. They paused for a while, now they’ve started up. When the text finally comes through, it consists of two words.

Duly noted.