Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
I sipped my vodka—on the rocks—and thought on it. “How is he?” I asked finally, unable to stop with the emotional cutting. She knew who I was talking about. He was here, a ghost, more so than he’d ever been when I thought he was really dead.
“Crappy. Obviously,” she said, not pulling punches. “Though he’s showering and going outside every day so maybe better than you.” She paused. “Though he is going outside in order to do things like beat drug dealers half to death, so I guess that makes you almost even.”
“He’s beating drug dealers half to death?” I repeated.
She nodded. “I know. He’s salvageable if he’s not actually killing them.”
I had forced myself to think about how Liam might be doing. Tried to convince myself not only did I not care but that he deserved to feel as horrible as he could.
I couldn’t admit that I had not only understood why he did what he did but forgave it too. I couldn’t do that because being angry was so much easier than being heartbroken.
“Are you here to tell me that we need to get back together?” I half hoped she was. I hoped she’d sink her nails into my skin and drag me back to New Mexico. So I could be their captive again.
No way I was going there of my own volition.
Scarlett laughed, throaty and attractive. “Fuck no,” she said, motioning to the bartender—who had been drooling at her—for two more.
The bar was all but empty, save for the few resident alcoholics that barely glanced at us when we entered the dingy place that was known to be a home for the hopeless. And even Scarlett, a certified sex kitten didn’t get a response from anyone but the bartender. Everyone else was too deep in their own sorrows.
And those suckers must’ve been deep not to surface and appreciate Scarlett.
“I’m very aware that we don’t live in a fairytale world,” she said. “And what you and Jagger have, it’s never gonna result in a happy ever after, even best-case scenario. I know that like I know my ending is never gonna be any fuckin’ thing like Cinderella’s. Not just because my prince is anything but charming.” She winked. “And he’s a king. Just not the kind from Disney.”
Our drinks were placed in front of us, empties swiped away.
Scarlett grinned.
“On the house,” the bartender winked, who looked to be older than dirt and sounded like a packet of cigarettes a day.
“There are still charming men in the world,” she said to him, lifting her drink in a toast. She looked to me. “You won’t find them in the Sons of Templar clubhouse, though. They’re charming in the way the devil is charming. He’ll sweet talk you long enough to claim your soul and never give it back. And what you and Jagger have, it’s not healthy. For a number of reasons, but let’s least start with how fucked up your history is. Like top level fucked up. And this coming from me, means something. You’re not good for each other. You’re both too damaged, there’s too much wrong. In an ideal world, you’d both find someone marginally more well-adjusted than each of you to balance you out. To make sure that every day of your life isn’t a battle.” She sipped.
I listened with a bleeding heart.
“But this isn’t an ideal world, I think we both know that,” she continued. “And in our world, every day of our lives is gonna be a battle, the least we can do is know that at the end of that battle we’ve got an orgasm, a man that’s probably gonna damn our soul even more.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, depends how enjoyable you find damnation.”
I clutched my drink.
I enjoyed damnation to the point of destruction.
That was the problem.
“I’m not here to drag you back,” Scarlett said. “I am here to tell you that Jagger’s gonna turn up tomorrow morning at his parents’ house. Your choice what you do. Shower first, though.”
I was frozen.
He was coming here.
To see his parents?
Scarlett was right.
I had a choice to make.
Jagger
He was afraid.
No, he was beyond afraid, terrified or just plain scared.
And he wasn’t staring in the face of a mission, the barrel of a gun, a knife about to slice through his face and his soul.
No, he was staring at the door to his childhood home. He was staring at the place that held mostly happy memories. Not all happy, because that wasn’t how life worked.
How family worked.
Times were good and times were bad. Struggles in his parents’ marriage. Trouble with his sister. Money problems. That was the way of life.
But the good memories overtook all that.
Because his family was a good one.
They made it through those hard times that were barely a blip in his memories.