Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
The next day, I’m on my way back to the hospital with red eyes after a sleepless night, but I’ve finally found Olivia’s number.
I need Micha at the hospital. Money aside, it’s all I can do for him.
Maybe Wyatt will fight for his son, because he’s sure as hell not fighting for me.
I punch the number. It rings three times.
Come on, witch. Fucking answer.
“Hello?” A woman picks up, sounding annoyed.
“Is this Olivia?”
“Lincoln—” She hesitates.
“Still recognize my voice, huh?”
“How could I forget it? You annoyed the hell out of me for years.” She sighs. “So, what? Is he finally dead or...?”
It takes all of my willpower not to punch the seat of the car.
This woman is a piece of fucking work. My grip on the phone tightens until my fingers hurt.
“Do you give a shit?”
“Somebody must, I suppose, or you wouldn’t be calling.”
Goddamn her.
“He isn’t dead, but he could be soon. Our feelings are mutual, but this isn’t about us. Wyatt’s son deserves one last chance to see his father alive, don’t you think?” I hold my breath, trying to be diplomatic.
“Hmm. I don’t know. I think my son has seen enough of his father’s drinking and crazy outbursts.”
“He didn’t start drinking like a distillery until you abandoned him,” I snarl.
“Oh, really? And how do you know? Because I seem to remember that you weren’t the one living with him when you have like five mansions to choose from.”
“Fuck you,” I bite off, shaking in my seat. “I lived with Wyatt when neither one of us had a single goddamned wall to call our own.”
“Before or after the war? Because it’s not the same. People change, Lincoln. You sound pretty batshit yourself. No offense.”
She’s trying to rile me up.
I’m silent for a second, drawing in a breath that feels like fire.
“You knew he needed help. You abandoned him before he was even back in the States for strange dick. He told me everything.”
“Everything, huh?” She yawns loudly.
“He needed you, Olivia. He tried to work shit out—everything—and he went above and beyond. He even told me about the kid that wasn’t his—the kid you got knocked up with he offered to adopt.”
Low blow, but it gets her attention.
She falls so silent I have to look at my phone to see if she’s still there.
“That’s not your fucking business, Burns. None of it! He couldn’t even handle me or Micha. His stupid ass was constantly crying and the bills...God, the bills...they’re the reason I miscarried, you fucking asshole.”
I look at the floor, remembering how totally fucked up the whole situation was.
She’s right about one thing, though.
Everyone suffered.
“Olivia, if he dies alone, that’s on your hands,” I growl. “And believe me, if I have to wait a decade, I’ll tell Micha about his old man. I’ll also be sure to let him know you kept him away when he was on his deathbed.”
I hate that I have to play that card. It kills me, but what alternative do I have?
“You just—you don’t even know! I begged him to get checked into treatment when counseling wasn’t cutting it. He wouldn’t.” She inhales sharply, sobbing quietly now. “I’m sorry he ended up on the street, but it was either that or let him drag us down. I begged him not to enlist in the first place. He wanted to because his stupid dad and his stupid grandfather served. He chose his battle, his life. He lost. I picked mine, and I sure as hell don’t need your judgment. But your opinion of me is none of my business, just like my life isn’t yours.”
“His battle was defending his country—right or wrong—and trying like hell to come home to his family. Yours was what? To ride dick and leave? You would’ve been out the door without so much as a Dear fucking John if he wasn’t discharged early. Don’t lie to me.”
Again, that gaping silence.
Again, I know I’m right, and I hate it.
“Doesn’t matter,” she hisses. “I tried to give my son a normal childhood that didn’t involve a mental patient swearing and drinking and punching walls.”
“He’s not a maniac,” I bite off.
“Wasn’t, you mean. That was true, once.”
“Are you wishing him dead?” I ask darkly.
“No. I’ll admit that he was sane before the war. He came home a different person. I might be a bitch for leaving him, for messing around, but damn. What can I say? I value sanity in a partner?”
“You should have stood by him. He wouldn’t have lost his mind if he had more support,” I snarl, sure to the bone that’s true.
“Umm—I don’t know if you know this, but it’s not my job to fix a broken grown-ass man with one leg.”
“He loved you, bitch. If you cared about him at all, you should have made sure he got help instead of taking off.”