Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
And she is.
At least…a bit.
Okay, maybe not that much.
But enough.
“Ma.”
“Slater.” Her firmly stating my name slinks me into my seat. “I am allowed to date.”
“I know that. I jus-”
The finger lifted has me clamping my lips shut once more. “I am allowed to date and who I do or do not invite in my bed is not your business until I invite it to be.”
More slouching.
More unhappy grumbles.
“And I will not be inviting it to be until I feel you can handle the topic of Tom-”
“His name’s Tom!?”
“-without losing your mind.”
“So, what you thinkin’ there, Gabs?” Dad playfully prods. “Like Christmas?”
Her sassy smirking in his direction precedes another nugget of info. “Your father introduced us.”
“You what?!” I explode, attention snapping over to him.
“You had that one coming,” Linda snickers on a tip of her drink.
“Little bit,” he mutters.
“What the fuck, Dad?!”
“They know each other from a work event,” Ma continues keeping the pressure on him.
“Not exactly. I met him at a work event. He’s a fellow contractor’s younger brother-”
“How much fuckin’ younger?!”
“Couple years under us, nothing to get your blood pressure up about.”
“It’s already so high,” Arley not so quietly whispers.
“You know this is why she never told you about datin’ when you were younger.”
“No, she didn’t tell me about this shit back then because she wasn’t doin’ it back then.”
His sarcastic head tilt has me glancing around the room to see everyone presenting me with the same expression.
Fucking hell.
My own mother doesn’t trust me to know her dating history?
First, Arley.
Now, my own flesh and blood?!
New waves of rage and resentment and dejection get my mind whirling to the point I grump, “I need some air.”
“Want me to come with?” my girlfriend lovingly inquires, summoning my stare to her.
Knowing her presence will only exacerbate the unsettling emotions pushes me to shake my head. “Nah, I’m just gonna go take a leak. That’ll be enough. Swear to me you won’t leave this chair ‘til I get back.”
“Swear.”
“Dad,” I grunt at the same time I rise to my feet, “don’t let anything happen to her while I’m gone.”
“Roger that, Champ.”
“Mijo-”
“It’s fine, Ma…” Backing down and backing out of the row are simultaneously done. “Really.”
“It’s not.”
“It will be.” A small shrug is the most I can offer. “I’ll be back. I seriously need to take a piss.”
And breathe air that isn’t clogged by other people’s lies of omission.
I exit the closed off room yet instead of making an immediate bee line for the bathroom, I rest my back against the nearby wall. Let my head hit it on a gentle thump. Momentarily lift my eyes to the ceiling that obviously hasn’t been dusted in a while.
Why don’t the women I care most about in the world feel they can tell me this kind of shit?
All I want is to make sure no one ever hurts them or to make those that do hurt them disappear.
Does that really make me such a bad man?
A monster?
On a heavy sigh, I amble away past the stairwell, following the signs for the restroom. Considering the game is well underway, there’s no surprise the place is practically barren, a fact that’s fine by me. I pee. Wash my hands. Splash cold water on my face and silently remind myself that while I’m doing what I think is best to protect them that’s probably what they think they’re doing for me.
Protecting me from myself.
The idea is an easier one to process than believing the women I love don’t trust me and leaving the area with the new notion floating around lifts a certain weight off my shoulders.
About two steps back out of the bathroom, I glance in both directions, managing to spot a splash of quick movement that’s out of place. Not wanting to chase the possible culprit down or cause a scene which would draw more attention putting Arley in additional danger, I decide to lure the individual out instead. Keeping a slower pace, I casually stroll the same path I initially took; however, when I arrive near the door to the stairwell, I abruptly pause.
Pretend to search my pockets for something.
Accelerate the movements and motions giving the impression I’m distracted.
That my defenses are down.
Like I expected, a hand lands on my bicep, leaving me with the perfect opportunity to twist the same appendage backward, grab their shoulder, and swing them into the push door to trap them inside a better area of attack. With their frame now forced up against the blockade, I’m now exposed to the identity of the individual as well as in the optimal interrogation position.
Shockingly enough, the scantily dressed female, meekly whimpers, “Ohmygod, I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”
Despite most people’s natural instinct to assume an unknown female isn’t armed or dangerous, I don’t.
Can’t.
That’s a dumb and deadly mistake.
“Name.”
“Claudia!”
“Who do you work for?”
“Costco!”
Confusion crunches my face convincing me to lighten my grip. “What?”