Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Not that I’m a saint or anything, but dammit I was the one who had insisted that Jamie be there for his mom’s surgery. I’d even paid for his plane ticket and personally escorted him. I don’t know, I guess I expected a little warmer reception than Mr. Atwood politely telling me to piss off over a glass of Johnny Walker Red.
“He’s done what he set out to do for you,” he’d said. And it wasn’t so much his words that pissed me off, but rather the look in his eyes as he regarded me across his desk. I could read people. I could hear unspoken words, feel emotions when people tried their best to hide them. This heightened ability to sense things seemed to be a side effect of being a fighter. At least it was for me. So when Jamie’s dad raised his dollar-store glass full of working man’s finest and toasted our separate futures, his eyes were saying something entirely different than his mouth. And that something was not friendly.
No clap on the back and welcome to the family for me. Nope. Jennifer’s zombie fiance— fucking wife-beater in training— could sit his redneck ass in front of the TV and act like he was the only person in the room, like everyone owed him something. But I couldn’t get a fucking smile from daddy.
I muffled a growl and threw a hard punch straight down into the seat. Something beneath the upholstery, beneath the cushions, didn’t give. My eyes flew open in surprise as knuckles plowed metal, like that moment when you punch a wall and realize you’ve accidentally located a stud.
I didn’t curse or yell or cry. Instead I ground my teeth together and smiled, sucking in a quick breath through my nose, feeling that familiar wash of agony that I craved like some people craved chocolate. My knuckles weren’t broken, I was sure of that, but there would be a hell of a bruise. I’d get to feel it every time I landed a right-handed punch, and that was a good thing. It would remind me of Jamie, and how I should never trust anyone again.
God, how had things gotten so fucked up? I’d wanted to be strong. For Jamie, I had wanted to hold it together. With his mom going into the hospital the next morning, he didn’t need me stirring up drama just because of my own insecurities. Hell, I had muscled through far more awkward situations and much colder receptions than that. And I supposed his dad had a right to prefer that his son follow in his footsteps and have a normal suburban life, rather than playing catcher to an emotionally volatile MMA fighter.
All things considered, I thought I did a pretty damn good job keeping my temper in check and rationalizing everything out. I tried so hard to be the perfect boyfriend.
But then… the necklace happened.
The fucking love necklace, with its secret code meant just for me. Yeah, right. When he was lying in my bed all sexed up and fucked six ways from Sunday, Jamie had gladly allowed me to flip that Claddagh heart around so that its point was aiming straight at his heart. Soulmate, he had said. And I’d thought he meant it.
But apparently, by the time we made it to Georgia, his fickle ass had come unfucked and he was ready to sell me down the river. When his sister pointed out that his charm was upside-down, he could have just shrugged it off, maybe even told them he’d met someone. I wouldn’t have given him away. It was not my intention to embarrass him or put him on the spot in front of his family. But to take the necklace off right there in front of me and turn it around? It felt like a blatant denial— like a take-back. I swear a stone cold kick in the nuts wouldn’t have hurt so much.
So, yeah. I snapped. I lost my cool, and I swore I’d never do that with him.
I fucking loved him.
I could still see his big round eyes looking up at me— warm brown eyes that could swallow me whole. And his sweet, pouty lips— so fucking tempting even when they were sneering at me in anger. Goddammit, why hadn’t I kissed him one last time? Just one last time to taste him, to breathe in his sweet scent, feel him pliant beneath my fingertips.
Instead, I’d used him like a nameless rent boy. No, worse than that; I’d humiliated him and hurt him. The most disturbing part of it all was that he’d let me do it to him. Hell, he’d begged for it, all the while looking at me with those hurt, soulful eyes. Pushing my buttons like only he can to do.
Killing me inside.