Spoiled Fruit
 It had been exactly two weeks, four days, seven hours, and fifty minutes since the last time he’d spoken to Beck. She’d gone quiet on most of her social media platforms -- a notion which drove Joe to partake in twice nightly walks in front of her place.
He knew Peach would be a problem. Frankly, he was baffled Beck couldn’t see the very poisonous intentions of the rotten girl. Perhaps she was blinded by some unconditional duty to her, no doubt due to the copious amounts of financial assistance the debutante threw at Beck. Shamelessly, as if Beck were a high class stripper on a chrome pole. Still, she danced to the beat and metaphorically shook her ass eagerly. Of course, his mind immediately went to the nefarious activities Beck could find herself in. This was another reason for his late night strolls. So far, there was no Benji replacement that he’d spotted. But there were nights she came home later than usual, which pricked his suspicion. One thing was for certain. If and when Beck came back to him, nothing would stand in their way this time. He would make certain of it. No matter what fruit would need to be plucked in the process.
He put his phone down for what felt like the thousandth time that morning. Longing to message the object of both his happiness and anguish. But he couldn’t. She had been the one to request space, and the last thing he wanted to do was jeopardize her reaching out to him. As if on cue, his phone dinged from its cradle between the comforter and sheet on his bed. He picked it up, his heart jumping in his throat. It was as if his thoughts called her to him. See, this... was meant to be. And he would stop at nothing to see it through.
