Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“Why would—”
“You think I haven’t cheated?” He widened his arms. “Fuck, man, I’m no saint. I’ve lied to friends, betrayed women, and fucked up plenty. I’ve been betrayed too. I’ve been cheated on and lied to.” He shrugged. “We’ve all done asshole things.”
I didn’t know what to say. Technically, I knew he was right.
“Ryan more so than me,” he added with a grin.
I snorted.
“Legit, if you have thoughts about trying out guys, I’m sure he can help you,” he chuckled.
It was impossible not to get struck by the humor. Ryan wasn’t merely bisexual; he was into some kinky shit and had shared more than one story about being one of those dominant fuckers. The image in my head was just too funny. I didn’t have a gay, or subservient, bone in me, so I was sure that conversation would go over well.
“Christ, I’m picturing it.” Darius cracked up.
I shook my head in amusement.
“I wonder who’d get locked up for murder,” he mused.
“Are you kidding me? Do I look like I can take on a Marine?”
He was fucking nuts. I might share the height of these Irish bastards, but they were certifiable, had years of experience in fields that made most people piss their pants…
Darius laughed. “Maybe not, but never underestimate a survivor.”
Survivor.
I wasn’t sure I’d use that word to describe myself.
“And Ryan isn’t the warrior who’s survived war?” I threw back.
“That’s—that’s different.” He waved it off and lit up a new cigarette with his old one. “You think I’m joking, but hear me out. Hear me out. I have this theory.”
This oughta be good.
I took a final pull from the smoke and then stubbed it out.
“It all depends on how we deal with trauma,” he said. Or slurred. “You can be a runner—most of us are, to an extent. It’s ingrained in us to try to escape trauma. But real runners…they reach a whole new level. They stop at nothing and will even take physical flight to get away.” He exhaled some smoke. “You can be a fighter. That’s me. Fighters can be good—but they also carry a shitload of anger and rarely know what to do with it.” Hence his bursts of rage? “I stand up against everything I’ve been through and think I can conquer it by taking on even more work. I’m a cocky son of a bitch, in other words.”
“No argument.” I smirked wryly.
“Then there’s you.” He threw an arm around my shoulders and nudged me toward the bar. “Even survivors have limits, but you can take more shit than anyone. To others, you come across as a bottomless pit.”
“I already knew I was full of shit,” I chuckled.
“You’re not listenin’,” he bitched. “Hear me out.”
Oh Christ.
“You keep getting up,” he told me. “Regardless of what life throws at you, you keep getting up in the morning. You get up after every fight, you get up after every blow you’re dealt.”
I side-eyed him, uncomfortable.
He took a deep pull from his smoke before throwing it away, even though he had more than half of it left. Then he patted my chest.
“That’s why I know you won’t use that sweet 686 that you’ve hidden in your towels in your bathroom upstairs.”
Fuck. I swallowed hard. With those words, I sobered up.
“Doesn’t mean I necessarily think it’s safe for you to keep it,” he said. “But you won’t use it.” He formed a gun with his fingers and pressed them to my temple. “It goes against your nature to stop breathing, my friend.”
I withdrew from his arms and cleared my throat.
“That’s a good thing, Ave.”
Yeah, whatever.
“I think it’s time for me to call it a night,” I said.
Darius shook his head and locked his arm around my neck, shoving me closer to the bar. “Nice try. Just because you’re a survivor doesn’t mean you’re not going through a lot of shit right now, and I don’t think you should be alone. Come on, I’ll buy you another beer. You’re part of the family—start acting like it.”
I released a heavy breath and just let it go for now. I’d be alone soon enough.
Eight
Growing up, I learned how to analyze levels of pain through someone’s scream.
Children were especially easy. They cried at nothing, and often, and most of the time, there was nothing to worry about. As long as Finn’s screaming had a tint of whining in it, all was good.
It was the equivalent of a teenage girl declaring it was the end of the world because her nail broke.
After that, however…
If my brother let out a sharp, blood-curdling scream, he was in pain. A lot of pain. At that point, I was locked inside our room, and no amount of pounding on the door would make our mother let me out and take his place. Instead, I’d be forced to stand there and listen. I’d hear his screams go from sharp and clear to jagged and raspy and choked and breathless. Sometimes, he’d scream until he gagged and threw up. The lack of air would send him straight into panic, and that scream… That particular scream still gave me nightmares sometimes.