OGs:Deep Down(10)

By: Elle Aycart


Then she’d run back to the cruise liner, and the rest, as they say, was history.

“I wanted to see the world,” she explained to a dumbstruck Red. “He wanted to keep me chained to the foot of his bed.”

Kyra knew she was being a bit unfair, but whatever. She’s just seen Mike taking off with a stripper to get down to business. She had the right to be a bit unfair.

Red looked like maybe being chained to the foot of Mike’s bed wasn’t such a horrible idea, but she didn’t comment on that. “Well, at least you saw the world, right?”

“Ha. Try enjoying yourself when you’re puking your guts out. I didn’t really get to see any of the countries we visited, but I sure as hell managed to vomit on all of them.”

“Seasick?”

Kyra shook her head. “Pregnant. By the asshole I just divorced. The ship’s head of security.”

And wasn’t that ironic? She’d taken the job because she wanted to dance and see the world, but she had ended up doing neither, because in three months she was pregnant and sick as a dog, and in three more, when she started showing and couldn’t close the skintight dresses, she lost her position as lead dancer and was transferred to deck entertainment duties. She wasn’t vomiting at that point, but she wasn’t seeing the world either, worried as she was about her predicament.

All in all, she was lucky she hadn’t gotten fired right away. There was a very strict no-pregnant-workers-aboard policy, but Drake had worked his magic. They’d gotten married, and she had been allowed to stay until she was six months pregnant. Which had worked for Drake too, because that was as long as it took for him to get tired of her and start fooling around with the other dancers who were more fun and hadn’t lost their figures.

“Heads of security are sneaky,” Red said and then fell silent.

Thank God, because she didn’t want to have this discussion now. Or ever. Much less in a strip bar with Mike probably nailing a sex bomb named Sinful to the wall by now. God, she was going to puke.

Besides, what was she supposed to say? That regardless of all the shit Drake had pulled on her, Mike had managed the one thing her ex hadn’t— to smash her soul into so many pieces she was still searching for them?

Angie wrapped her arm over Kyra’s shoulders. “You know what? Fuck the spa. I’m throwing you a breakup party tomorrow.”

“A what?”

Angie smiled mischievously. “You heard. A kicked-your-hubby-to-the-curb breakup party. Let’s have a crazy night out.”

A crazy night out? With her luck, she would end up flying over the Grand Canyon à la Thelma and Louise.

“Angie, I really appreciate this, but I’m not in the mood for a party.” Not that she had that many friends in Alden. Angie was the only one she had left. All the others had been primarily Mike’s. And had remained his friends.

“And that’s exactly why you need one,” Angie insisted and then wiggled her brows. “I’ll get you a breakup cake too.”

She was scared to ask.

The piece of Death by Chocolate was gone, so Kyra reached for the shot of bourbon.





Chapter Three

Hell of a way to spend his Saturday night, standing on the shadowed part of the Shack, sucking beer after beer, and pretending not to be devouring Kyra with his gaze.

Mike needed to get the hell out of there. All he had to do was turn around and put one foot in front of the other again and again until he hit the lake and could drown himself, or found his truck, whichever came first.

Easy, right? Wrong.

Breakup party girl was driving Mike fucking bat-shit crazy.

He’d come down to the popular open bar on the lake to unwind, but from the moment he’d arrived and realized what was going on, he’d known he was in trouble. Kyra had been partying with Angie. They might have started by themselves, but as that insane four-tier cake had made an appearance, the people around them had caught on to what the girls were celebrating and started buying them drinks and joining in. Men especially.

He hadn’t planned on drinking tonight, but that had been before spotting her. Now he couldn’t guzzle booze fast enough. Which was useless, because the more he drank, the sharper his senses got. And the clearer his memory became. Figure that one.

Yet he refused to give up, going with the hypothesis that eventually his vision would have to blur and his body shut down. So far no luck; all he could see was Kyra. Dressed in baggy cargo pants that rode low on her hips and a skintight tank top, all curves and boobs and thick, long, ebony hair swaying to the music. To say his jeans were a bit tight was the understatement of the century. The motherfuckers had shrunk three sizes at the very least and were strangling the hell out of his poor dick. His brain had lost blood supply a while ago and was currently off-line.

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