Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
They always are.
I grunt, taking her hips, ignoring how wrong she feels. How wrong all of this is. She cries out, I bite down on my back teeth, and I start thrusting, my head dropped back, unwilling to look at her, unwilling to reason with myself. Fuck her hard. Do what you do best, Ward. I’m not capable of loving. I’m only capable of fucking. It’s all I know, all I’m good for.
You deserve nothing more than this meaningless pleasure.
Leave your feelings at the door.
I bellow at the ceiling, starting to pound her hard, my fingers clawing into her hips. This isn’t pleasurable. It’s not serving its purpose. Sarah was right to laugh at me. To think I could have Ava. That's why she sent this woman here.
I feel a hand on my back and drop my head, looking over my shoulder. A seductive smile greets me. I growl, pulling free of one pussy, and drag the woman in front of me, bending her over the couch beside Freja and burying my dick in another on a yell. She screams her delight, her head thrashing around immediately.
Sweat starts to seep through my shirt, my face strained, my dick sore. I force my eyes to the woman’s back. Then to Freja, who’s watching, waiting for her turn again. I blink when her face starts to distort, my vision fuzzy, my brain feeling like it’s smacking against the side of my skull as I try to bang myself free of my cage.
They’re. Not. Who. I. Want.
Trapped.
“Fuck!” I bark, pulling out fast and swinging around, my hands delving into my hair. “Get out,” I bellow, stalking to the door and swinging it open. “Get the fuck out!”
Both women scurry away, their faces expressions of pure shock, and I immediately hate myself more. They didn’t deserve that. But I’m in no fit state to right my wrongs.
I slam the door behind them.
Punch it.
Bellow obscenity after obscenity.
Then I stalk to the cabinet, swiping my arms across the surface on a yell, sending the glasses and bottles crashing to the floor. I yank the mini-fridge open and grab a bottle of water, glugging it back manically. I toss it aside when I’m done, immediately grabbing another and downing it. Then another. Then another. I keep going, drinking water like it can cleanse me of the alcohol and my sins, bottle after bottle. My stomach eventually revolts, and I grab a bin, throwing up into it, coughing, spluttering, and retching.
I’m done.
But I’m not done.
I take hold of the cabinet at one end and drag the solid piece across my office, blocking the door, barricading myself in. Stopping me from leaving. And anyone from coming in.
Then I fall to my knees, my eyes welling with hopeless tears.
I can’t escape. I can’t be free of this self-sabotage. I’m my own worst enemy. A failure. The deadliest kind of poison. Out of my mind in all ways.
And hopelessly in love with a woman I can never have.
Or deserve.
“Why did I fucking live and they all died?” I roar, consumed by self-hatred.
Why? I should be dead. Not them. Not. Them.
Because I’m a fuck-up, just as my dad has always said. A total, unsavable fuck-up.
That thought has me sifting through the bottles on the floor to find some more vodka.
I just need this all to end.
18
What have I done? How could I? What will my punishment be for that mistake? Can I redeem myself?
Questions run amok in my mind, one after the other, all questions with answers I can’t face.
John has come and gone. Sam and Drew have come and gone. Sarah followed me back after I released myself to use the toilet. All have stood on the other side of that door trying to force it open, calling out to me. I text them all. Told them I’m fine.
I’m far from fine. I’m a wreck. Plagued by guilt. Haunted by shame.
But while I’m suffering, at least Ava isn’t. Especially clear given she hasn’t text once.
I drag myself onto the couch, pulling my phone off charge. Saturday. I’ve been festering in here for days. I finished every drop of vodka I had for the first two days. Safe. Barricaded in my office to be numb, with no risk of more meaningless fucking, dropping off to sleep now and then, but only for an hour or two before my nightmares woke me. Then the vodka ran dry. And all that was left for the past two days was a hangover, regret, and memories of the brief time in my life when grief and guilt didn’t rule it. The hangover has passed, but I still feel like death. It’s the first time ever alcohol isn’t responsible.
I toss my phone aside and scrub my hands down my face, feeling my overgrown stubble scratching my palms. Every one of my muscles feels tight. I gingerly stand, cringing through the discomfort, stretching. I smell like death too, my shirt crumpled and stale. I need a shower. Maybe ten.