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The Alpha’s Desire 1(28)

By:Willow Brooks
 
 
 
Picking it up, I read the words again.
 
 
 
I shouldn’t have.
 
I’m sorry.
 
Forgive Me.
 
 
 
He shouldn’t have what? He shouldn’t have slept with me? He shouldn’t have listened to me? He shouldn’t have ever talked to me in the first place? Which event exactly should he not have done? He was sorry for what? I guess he was sorry for whatever it is he shouldn’t have done, but it wasn’t as if that cleared anything up. The ‘forgive me’ part bugged me most.
 
 
 
What did he care if I forgave him? There was no number here to call and tell him I’d done so. Stupid, I know, to even think that. Some words, people just write. Yet, him, the singer and songwriter with such passionate words the likes of which I’d never heard before... I didn’t believe that he just wrote any words. He’d have thought them out. He’d obviously wanted to say them, but had felt the need to be purposefully vague.
 
 
 
I looked at the door. No knock had sounded. I wanted him to come back, to have to see me again the way I wanted to see him. Surely, for a man as deeply emotional as Lex, this whole situation would bother him. I couldn’t believe him cold or indifferent. Taking a few tentative steps, I leaned against the door. I let my head fall too hard. The dull thump which stopped the headache a blessed second made me aware of the ache in my jaw. I’d been gritting my teeth. I really needed to take some time to relax. Anxiety did awful things to my body. Staring at the floor, I watched my socked feet pad slowly to the coffee pot. I poured my second cup. When my stomach grumbled again more insistently, I grabbed a cookie from the open bag in my cupboard, not able to find the energy to even throw a piece of bread in the toaster.
 
 
 
Nibbling, letting the soft sugar cookies melt on my tongue, I walked to the bedroom. My plan was to get dressed and calm down, in motion at least, even if everything in me screamed out in resistance, and a shower had to help. Once I made it into the shower, the hot water went a long way to easing some of my piddley aches and pains. The warmth soothed my body’s grievances against me for putting it through the last twenty-four hours or so. Hell, it had a beef to pick with me for the last week. Who was I kidding?
 
 
 
Dry and ready to move on, I pulled a light-weight sweatshirt over my head and yoga pants up my legs. I sat on the floor beside my bed with my legs crossed and my hands resting on my thighs. Breathing in and out, I brought to mind each part of my body, starting at my head and moving down to my toes. With each, I gently suggested relaxation, and awaited the warm sensation that came with the softening of the muscles there.
 
 
 
My stomach gave me the most resistance. With only coffee along with sugar, butter, and white refined flour to go on after a long bout with wayward, crazed emotions, it rolled and tightened around the ball that felt like a lead balloon in the pit of it. I focused in on the painting on my wall of a waterfall. Imagining the sound of the falling water, I took in deep breaths. In my mind, I tried to let myself float there, to sit on the fallen tree trunk along the water’s edge, to run my hands over the sun-heated grass, to smell the fresh air of the forest. When I opened my eyes, my reflection in the mirror greeted me. Sitting slumped over in a miss-matched bright pink pants and odd-shade of green shirt, reality obliterated the dreamscape.
 
 
 
I’ll see him again, I promised myself as I straightened my spine. And, if I do, I’ll probably want to change my outfit.
 
 
 
I narrowed my gaze, and looked down my nose at my reflection. I wouldn’t tolerate this behavior from myself, not even over a guy as amazing, as utterly unbelievably sweet, as he had been until the final moments of last night. I’d formulate a plan to see him again. I’d be proactive. It was a new day, and time to move forward rather than to lounge in the woes of self-pity. Surely, he’d play at that club again at some point. Maybe I could talk Chloe into going back with me next time he played. I could at least confront him then. Maybe some time, some distance, would make him more willing to confess why he’d left me that way. I imagined him standing in the club, the way his eyes would light at seeing me again. He’d shower me in apologies as he rubbed my arms.
 
 
 
Afterward, he’d take me back to his place this time. I imagined it a luxury apartment, all dark wood and deep woodsy hues. He’d fit right in, the king of his castle. He would explain why he’d made love to me like I was a goddess and he my prince, and then run out the door like a coward with his tail between his legs. After all that, I’d forgive him, and we’d make mad passionate love.