Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
She nods, settling, relaxing. Enjoying the stone-cold bath. Watching me. “Are Danny and Rose all right?”
“They will be,” I say, starting to stroke up and down her calves. “They’ve always been the same. Fight. Fuck. Adore. Repeat.”
She smiles, nodding mildly, using both hands to push her wet hair back from her face.
“Where did you live in England?” I ask, trying and failing to sound casual. Ever since she opened up about her parents’ deaths, I’ve been curious. I want to look her family up. Maybe warn them off. Whoever they are.
Pearl looks at me with a wary eye.
“What?” I ask, guilty.
“No,” she says, firm and serious. “Whatever you’re thinking, no.”
“It’ll just be a polite request to back off.” Or die.
“No,” she affirms. “You mustn’t. Promise me you won’t get involved, Brad.”
I recoil, taken aback by her instant, rising panic.
“Promise me,” she demands.
“Promise,” I whisper, watching her on the cusp of a full-blown panic attack. Again. What isn’t she telling me? I reach for the faucet and turn it on to warm the water up, but Pearl shoots a hand out and turns it straight back off.
“I was going to warm up the water.”
“It’s fine,” she says, her gaze on the faucet.
“It’s freezing,” I point out, watching her on the brink of another attack. Seeing her like this? Painful. “Come here.” I hold my hand out and she studies it for a moment before tentatively taking it. I pull her onto my body, holding her against my chest, hugging her hard. “I promise,” I assure her again, feeling her nod into me.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I breathe, settling.
Feeling.
Adoring.
33
DANNY
* * *
I’m three drinks in and still hurting everywhere. My face. Jesus, my face. I reach up and press gently into my swollen lip, sucking back air. The touch upsets the clotting blood there, and it starts bleeding again. “Fucker.” I lick it away, creaking up from the chair and raking a hand through my hair. I need to fucking sleep. Rest. But there’s no chance of that. Or I could drink. I look at my glass and knock it back. I can drink myself into a coma. I pour another before leaving the office to stretch my legs, tired of sitting there, thinking of all the reasons Rose and I are bad for each other. Toxic. Damaging. Dangerous.
But fucking perfect.
I step out into the nighttime air and light up, following the path through the garden. Past the patio, past the pool, all the way to the back. “Cindy, Barbie,” I call, putting my Marlboro between my lips as I dip to pick up a ball. “Good God,” I moan, my muscles screaming. The girls appear from around the back of the summer house, running at me, as I creak my way back up from crouching. “Heel.” They both sit at my feet. “Fetch?” They’re up again, that one word telling them it’s time for some relaxing.
I spend half an hour wandering the grounds, sipping my Scotch, smoking, the dogs flanking me, waiting for me to throw the ball for them. Each time I do, they dash off, barking. Cindy always returns with the ball.
I circle the back of the house and stop in front of a bed full of roses. All kinds—climbing, reds, whites, yellows. “Pretty,” I murmur, for the first time taking notice of the beautiful, established rose bed. Pops would be proud. He loved his gardens.
I light up another cigarette and turn my head to blow the smoke away from the roses, frowning when I hear a high-pitched, shrill yelp of a woman coming from Brad’s room. I look up at his terrace. The lights are on.
“Brad!” she yells.
I can just about muster the energy to be happy for the miserable fucker. Even if his choice of outlet is a fucking lawyer.
“You dick,” I mutter as I carry on my way, dawdling, smoking, now kicking the ball for the girls so I don’t have to stop and dip, saving myself a little discomfort. I could do with a massage. “Yeah, not happening,” I say, laughing but not. I come to a stop below the terrace for our bedroom, hearing Maggie crying, and I sigh, bracing myself for another night with no sleep. I don’t rush to the bedroom to try to help Rose. She made it clear I’m not welcome in the marital bed. Then I made it clear that the day we don’t sleep in the same bed is the day I die. I scrub a hand down my face, finish my smoke, and head to the house. “That’s enough for tonight, girls,” I say. “Release.” They dash off, up the garden, abandoning their ball, back on duty.
Mum’s in the kitchen when I get there, sitting at the island, reading a magazine. She looks up at me when I come to a stop in the doorway. I can’t even muster the strength to tell her I’m okay. Tell her not to worry.