My insides twist until my lungs feel jammed in my throat as I remember how he tried to pull his respirator off and stop me. His eyes, black and mysterious, looking at me desperately from a hospital bed. And the month I left, he was very, very manic. When he goes manic, he does not remember, sometimes, what he does. He’s not only fucking Remington “Riptide” Tate-he’s bipolar and he swings from one mood spectrum to the next. Remy in his rawest form, intense and manic, as reckless as he will ever be.īecause he’s not normal. I imagine him thrown across a hotel bed while dozens of women pleasure him, his blue eyes-my blue eyes-watching them come apart for him too.Īnd then, then I think that he might not have been blue. In my mind, I see his eyes, the way he watches me come for him. I think of the way he moves, like a predator taking me, when we make love. I don’t want to hit someone, I can barely even stand.Įverything blurs as I turn to stare at Remy’s back. then she starts glancing around as if she wants to hide in a fucking flowerpot! “Brooke,” she whispers, her tone apologetic as she backs up a step. My stomach drops, and I mean, drops, when Diane’s eyes widen, and her face loses all color.
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