Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“I never really had the option,” I told him. “I thought Czar was controlling me, so I didn’t think the whole getting married and having kids thing was even possible for me.”
“Now that you know it is?” he prompted. “An option,” he clarified.
Did he mean that in general?
Or with him.
My heart swelled at the idea that he meant him.
But I refused to let myself get my hopes too high.
“What are we talking here? Me as a housewife?” I asked, clicking my tongue, considering it. “I don’t know. I think I’d want something that got me out of the house and into the world. Even if it was very part-time. I’m also not a great cook,” I told him.
“Lucky for me, I’ve got Detroit,” he said, smirking at me.
I wanted to return that smirk, knowing how much I’d been enjoying the fact that Detroit seemed to genuinely enjoy cooking and cleaning and even shopping for the ingredients.
But I was too busy feeling my belly do a flip-flopping thing at his words. Because there was no gray area now, no way to misinterpret him.
He was planning a future with me.
One where he relied on Detroit to cook because he knew I wouldn’t do it.
“You want kids?” he asked a moment later.
“You know, I never really gave it thought when I was younger. And I guess I just couldn’t see that far into the future. But I’m really loving spending more time with my nephew. And, I dunno. I wouldn’t mind one of them. Maybe two. Max,” I said, holding up a hand.
I knew the Murphys planned to breed like bunnies, but I didn’t like the thought of being outnumbered by my offspring. Especially if they inherited both my and Slash’s stubborn, independent, a little impulsive natures.
I mean… teenage versions of us would be nightmares. To the town. And their parents.
“Yeah, no more than two,” Slash agreed, nodding.
“Hey, I don’t think you’ve ever said…” I started.
“Said what?”
“Do you have any siblings?”
There was a long pause. A meaningful one. One that had me reading a lot into it.
“I’ve got two half brothers,” he admitted, nodding. “Same mom,” he clarified. “When she got gone from my dad, she got herself set up with a nice, stable guy who didn’t snort all the money away. Had herself two kids. Raised ‘em up.”
“Why does it sound like you don’t know them?” I asked.
“‘Cause I don’t,” he admitted.
“How old are they?”
“Couple years younger than me. Don’t remember exactly how many. Think she pushed one of them out when I was still in the hospital for this,” he said, waving at his face.
“Wait… what? Your mom left you with your father?” she asked. “And started this whole life while that asshole ‘raised’ you? Even after the accident?”
“In her defense, I don’t remember a day of my childhood the two of them weren’t going at it. Verbally and physically.”
“I don’t care,” I said, sitting up, feeling rage flood my system. “You don’t leave your kids with an abusive father. Not even to get yourself free. No fucking way.”
“Your dad left you with your mom.”
“It’s different. She was… negligent. Not abusive. Your father was a piece of shit.”
“Not arguing with you,” he agreed, reaching up to rub my knee. “It’s sweet,” he said. “You getting riled up for shit that happened decades ago.”
“How did he get to keep you after that accident?” I asked.
“Child services took me for a while. He went off to rehab. Eventually, they figured he was straight enough. Honestly, they probably just didn’t have anywhere to stick me,” he said. “No one wants teen boys. Just a fact of the system.”
“What happened after you went back?”
“I was bigger,” he said, shrugging it off like that wasn’t super fucked up. He was bigger, so he didn’t have to worry about getting knocked around so much. “And I was meaner,” he said, eyes going a little dark. “You know how kids are dicks?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m familiar.” I remembered a lot of nasty shit thrown at me because my mom was a drinker, because of where I lived, because I got school breakfast and lunch, because my clothes were thrifted. All that typical bully shit that it took me a long time to get strong enough to stand up to.
“Well, they’re especially nasty when they got shit to pick on you about,” he said, once again gesturing toward his scars. “After a while, I got sick of their shit. Nearly went to juvie for breaking one of the assholes’ jaw. Figure that might have been the last straw that had ‘em sticking me back with my old man.”
How different would his life have been if his mother had been halfway decent, had she given a shit, had she raised him like she’d raised her other kids?
Would he have been less guarded, less closed off from people?