Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 74022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“Maybe,” he nods, running a hand through his hair. He looks exhausted. “But I gotta do somethin’ here. Watched him drown after Nerissa, don’t wanna fuckin’ see him do it again, because I’m scared this time, we won’t be able to bring him back to life.”
“Okay,” I tell him, turning toward the door. “I’ll go now.”
“Chantelle?”
I look back over my shoulder.
“Do what it takes, yeah? Be brutal, if you have to, but do what it fuckin’ takes to keep both hands on him to stop him from fallin’.”
I nod.
And then walk out.
I say goodbye to everyone and tell Saskia what I’m doing, to which she cautions me to be careful, and then I get in my car and drive to Boston’s house.
I don’t know what I’m going to find when I get there, or what I’m going to say. I don’t know how he best would want to be dealt with. I think about it long and hard on the drive over, going over every scenario, and how he might react to everything I could do in an attempt to get him to work with me, and decide that I know the best way.
I know it.
But can I bring myself to do it?
I’m terrified about what’s going to happen.
Terrified because I’m pregnant, terrified because I love him, and terrified, that after it all ...
He might not love me enough for this to matter.
And that’s the scariest thought there is.
~21~
NOW – BOSTON
Feeling nothing, is a fuck of a lot worse than feeling everything.
Feeling nothing means you’re living in an empty, bottomless pit of just ... fuck all.
That’s where I’m at.
Haven’t been in this place for a while, and never wanted to find it again, but here I am, sitting in its fuckin’ living room, drowning.
I killed Ashton.
And that’s not the part that bothers me the most. That mother fucker deserved everything he got, he was out of control and would have killed Penny, if I didn’t make that choice.
No, that’s not the part that bothers me.
The part that bothers me is that I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t control my body. My rage. It’s that she was screaming, and scared, and saw the worst part of me unleashed.
It was the look in her eyes after it. The horror. The disgust.
And now, she wants nothing to do with me.
I can’t say I blame her, but the feeling of knowing that I caused that in another person, especially a person I care about, is eatin’ me fuckin’ alive.
I take another long drink, swallowing the burning alcohol, trying to numb myself even more, because feeling nothing means you feel fuckin’ everything, and none of it makes sense.
I don’t see her, at first.
I’m sitting on my patio, unshowered, unshaven, drinking straight from the bottle. A few of the guys have come around, tried to talk to me, I’ve said nothing to any of them. I have nothing to say. I lost control. I lost control and I can’t get that back. I can’t undo what I did. That’ll haunt me forever.
“You know,” Chantelle says, and I whip my head around as she walks, very slowly because she’s still in pain, out onto my porch, “You’re a miserable drunk, Boston.”
I study her face. It’s still battered, and bruised. I never checked on her. Never went to see if she was okay after the attack. I just drowned in my own pitiful existence. And yet, here she is. No doubt about to tell me she can’t stand me, too. Can’t say I blame her. I can’t stand me.
“No reason for you to be here,” I grate out, my voice gravelly and broken.
She rolls her eyes, and walks over, sitting down beside me on the spare chair. I should have moved it.
“Well, one could argue that you’re my friend and you’re currently acting like you’re in serious need of mental help ...”
I shoot her an angry glare, but she doesn’t even flinch. She just stares at me.
“I figure we have a few ways of being able to do this, Boston,” she says, holding my gaze. “Either you get up, go and shower, and we’ll have something to eat and talk, or I’ll make you get up, go and have a shower, and we’ll have something to eat and talk. Either way is fine by me.”
“Leave, Chantelle.”
“Yeah,” she shakes her head. “That’s not going to happen, so throw out whatever words you need to, to make yourself feel better, I won’t be leaving anytime soon. So, the choice is yours.”
I turn and take another long drink out of the bottle, saying nothing.
“Okay,” she says, snatching the bottle from my hand. “Have it your way.”
She tosses the bottle and it tumbles across my porch, leaking out everywhere.
“The fuck you think that’s going to stop?” I growl. “I’ve got more.”
She stands, turning to face me, and then, without warning, she is straddling me, my hair in her hands, tugging it hard. She tips my head back so our faces are close. “Now you listen to me, this is pathetic. You’re better than this. You’re stronger than this. And I’m not going to sit back and watch you wallow in self-pity. You’re going to get up, and you’re going to shower, and we’re going to sort this out.”