Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“No.”
“Damn, man. I get it. All of it. I know why you can’t tell her, but I don’t envy you the moment she finds out. Especially the part where you sought her out and fucked her to prove she was a killer.”
He left off the part where I wanted to ruin her. And I have to confess everything to her, in some brilliant way that convinces her I’m not her enemy. In fact, I am the man whose bed and life may never be the same again without her.
Chapter Seven
Faith
I killed her.
I blink awake with my confession to Nick in my mind, the scent of him surrounding me, his bed cushioning me. The taste of the rich whiskey I drank with him is still on my tongue, but it does nothing to erase the bitterness of those words or the way I feel them deep in my gut. I wait for the regret over telling Nick to follow, but it doesn’t exist. I didn’t plan to bare my soul to Nick, but I did, and the fact that I felt that I could, especially with my history with Macom and my mother, brings one word to mind: Possibilities. Considering Nick and I started with a vow for one night, the place we’ve landed is pretty incredible. And scary. Because I really am naked and exposed with this man. That means vulnerability. That means he could hurt me.
Oddly, my fear of him hurting me served as a mechanism to push me to trust him more. The minute he’d told me he’d paid my debt, I’d panicked. I was feeling emotionally exposed, and then he claimed control over the winery situation that I had failed to control myself. He’d been generous, protective—a hero, even—but unknowingly, he’d shifted the financial dynamic between us to resemble the one I’d shared with Macom. The next thing I knew, I was throwing out the “I killed her” statement and, in hindsight, wanting Nick to prove he wasn’t worthy of my trust. Wanting Nick to judge me the way I was judging me.
And it had not only been a beautiful failure, it led me to share more of myself with Nick. He understood my choices and, I think, believed them to be more right than I do, even approving of my decision to try to take the winery from my mother. Unbidden, that thought has my mind trying to skip over Nick and go back to that night when my mother died. It is not a gentle memory, and I reject it, throwing off the blanket and sitting up, swinging my legs to the floor, feet settling on the ground. I really need my feet on the ground, but it’s not enough to keep the past at bay.
I’m there, living it, my fingers curling on the edge of Nick’s mattress, my eyes shutting as I return to the winery and that brutal night. I’d just finished being humiliated by a bill collector in front of several staff members. Furious, I’d sought out my mother and found her in her gardens on her knees, fussing over the ground around a cluster of some sort of white flowers. And the past is so vivid right now that I can almost smell the flowers, bitter and sweet in the same inhaled breath.
“Where is the money, Mother?” I demand.
Of course, she knows what I’m talking about but chooses to play dumb, glancing up at me and saying, “What are we talking about, dear?” which only serves to infuriate me more.
“Where is all the money we’re making?”
She pushes to her feet, pulling off her gloves, her hands settling on her slender blue jean–clad hips. “You need to go back to L.A. and let Macom take care of you, because you clearly cannot handle the pressure here. And this is my winery anyway.”
“It will be mine one day, and I’ll inherit the debt and problems you’re creating.”
“Oh, so that’s it?” she demands. “This is all about protecting your money. Wouldn’t your father be proud? You finally give a damn about the winery, and it’s about money.”
“I have no choice but to care about the debts I will inherit.”
“Like I said,” she bites out. “Go back to your rich artist boyfriend and let him take care of you. This is my world, not yours. I bet your father turned over in his grave when you sued me.”
“He’s in his grave because you fucked my uncle and everyone else who would have you.”
She laughs. “You didn’t even know your father,” she says. “He liked watching me with other men.”
“He did not,” I spit back. “He did not.”
“He did,” she insists, turning away from me, and she seems to take a step forward before she falls face-first into all of those dozens of white flowers.
My thoughts shift at that point to the place they always go after that memory: the funeral, and, as expected, the grave site, and the final goodbye. There are rows of filled seats surrounding me, people lined up beside and behind me while rain splatters down atop a sea of umbrellas. Appropriate, actually, since my mother loved the rain. It also saves me when I didn’t save her, because no one knows that I’m not crying. But I know. I know so many things I don’t want anyone else to know. Like the fact that as the preacher speaks, I’m wondering how many of the random men here slept with my mother. And how many did my father know, too? Did he like to watch? God. Is that why he tolerated her?