Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
The pain in my chest intensified.
It wasn’t from the fighting.
It was jealousy.
Jealousy that they had the ending I should have had.
The happy one where you fuck as much as you fight.
Claire hadn’t ever pushed me. No, it always felt more like manipulation.
“We’re pregnant,” she said in a hush. “We need to think about the baby’s future, Ash, not just ours. I mean, can you really see us raising a child in this environment?”
I immediately tensed. “What the hell’s wrong with being raised like this? I had everything as a child. I wanted for nothing. I had family. I had friends. I grew up with my best friends. What the fuck, Claire?”
She scowled and looked down at her hands. “You say that now, but would you really raise your son or daughter up in this life?”
“My dad did it, my uncles did it, why not us?” I reached for her hand only to have her jerk it away and rub it. “What? Now you’re pissed? You know I’ve got you; I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I know.” Her smile seemed forced. “Come on, let’s get to class.” She stopped walking. “Actually, I was going to run some errands, but I can do them later. Can I borrow your car, like later this week?”
I tossed her the spare key fob. “Just let me know when and try not to wreck it.”
She smiled and then walked back up to me and kissed me soundly on the mouth. “I probably won’t go until later this week, but I’ll text you.”
“Send a nude along with that text, will ya?”
She laughed and pulled me in for a hug. “We’ll get through it, right?”
“We get through everything, Claire. We’ll get through this.”
“I love you, you know. I do.” She clung to me tightly.
“And I love you.” But even as I said the words, they tasted bitter in my mouth, like she didn’t understand the depth of my love.
And she never would.
I wanted to break my body in half so she could see how much of my heart she owned. It seemed no matter what I said, she wouldn’t ever get it.
I just wish my words were enough.
My actions enough.
Everything I did, I did for her, in order to keep her safe.
And on days like this, I felt like a fucking failure because it still wasn’t enough for her to feel like I could be a good father, was it? It still wasn’t fucking enough.
“Marry me.” Junior’s words interrupted my trip down depressing-as-hell memory lane.
“YES!” Serena jumped into the air and then jumped onto him as he swung her around. “But the ring?”
Junior just sighed, pressing his forehead against hers. “It’s in my car; let’s go.”
They ran up the stairs as Serena sang out, “Champagne in twenty, bitches.”
“Why twenty?” King scratched his head.
“Because the rest of the fifteen minutes is going to be spent with Serena, most likely on her knees servicing her king.” I shrugged and then started walking out of the ring.
Wanting to be alone.
And hating that no matter what—I always felt like I was.
Chapter Twelve
“The song is ended but the melody lingers on.” —Irving Berlin
Annie
I was still traumatized from my horrible week—and every ride home with Ash had been some of the most awkward and tense experiences of my life. Then again, he had most of my tense experiences in the ball of his fist, so I shouldn’t be that surprised. I couldn’t read him. At University, he seemed almost playful and protective, if that made any sense, instead of scary as hell. Though, when it came down to it…
I’d liked it.
Who was I kidding?
I’d loved the fact that out of everyone on campus—it was enemy number one who decided to play hero. It gave me a glimpse of hope that maybe Ash wasn’t such a horrible person after all. Maybe deep down, he did have a heart; he just hadn’t known how to fix what was broken, so every time he tried to use it—it hurt.
I could justify so many moments with him after that rescue.
After he threatened everyone in class.
And after he basically took ownership of my tears as if they were his and his alone. Did it make me sick that I liked it? That if I had to cry, I wanted it to be over him? Like a baptism of pain and longing all at once?
Every time we pulled into the garage, he’d grip the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. Then he’d turn to me, open his mouth, and shut it again like he was trying to silence himself before he said something he’d regret.
Which seemed to be his MO lately when we were alone.
He always left me there, waiting, with my seatbelt still strapped and my chest still heavy from the trauma since that fateful day.
What sort of person did it make me, that I would have done anything, sold my soul for him to reach across that console and squeeze my hand.