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17

ASHTON

I’ve said all those words before: be the bigger person. Walk away. You’re feeding into their bullshit. Violence solves nothing. You’re the CEO of a nonprofit. Stop.

Stop.

Breathe.

Leave.

I let about fifteen feet divide me and the bartender. Backing up. Backing away, all the while he’s talking shit. “What about your sister,” he laughs mockingly. “Blanca Johnson—another wet slut. Bet she puts out twice as much as your mom. Is she a little sex addict too?”

I taste acid on my tongue, but words burn the back of my throat. Dying inside of me.

And Lennox can’t provoke the bartender. If these insults eat at him, he can’t show me either. I’m in a thundering boat of one.

Trying to steer myself towards the door. I almost get there.

And then he says, “I hope she locks her doors at night.”

I go rigid.

Motionless and still faced towards him. “What’d you say?”

He laughs. “I hope she keeps her doors locked. You know how many men would break through just to taste her—”

I lose it. Te
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