Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 106797 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106797 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I tried to swallow, but found no moisture to aid in the process. Rhodes’ scowl was intimidating, but I saw him shaking slightly. And that’s when it hit me.
He was embarrassed.
There was a reason he asked me to show up after that woman was gone. He didn’t like this part of himself, which prompted my next question.
“Why?”
“Because not all of us have a rich daddy.” He slammed the fridge shut with those words, popping the top off a bottle of beer.
“That’s not fair.”
“Don’t talk to me about fair,” he said, bringing the bottle to his lips. After a few chugs, he set it on the counter and splayed his palms out, facing me. “My twin sister disappeared when I was a senior in high school and as soon as I graduated, my foster parents kicked me out. The money stopped, right? So why would they want to keep me?” He shook his head. “I was glad to leave though, Natalie. Because being out on the streets without a clue as to what to do with my life was better than being beaten by my alcoholic foster dad every night.”
My throat was so tight, so dry. I wanted to say something, but I had no idea what.
“But I made it on my own. It wasn’t easy, but I learned real quickly that earning enough to live means not always doing what you want to do. I lived on the streets for months before I figured out the kind of work I could do to make real money. It was drugs at first, and then it evolved into… other things.”
“They pay you?” I asked softly.
“Of course they fucking pay me.” He shoved back from the counter. “And not shit money, either. I make more off one session with them than I do an entire month of working at the club. They toss hundreds around like food scraps.” He took another long pull from his beer, his eyes wild. It’s like he wanted to stop himself from talking, but he was at the point where he couldn’t. “You think I can pay for an apartment on my own with the twenty dollars a training session the clients pays me? You think I’d be able to afford the private investigator I’ve had searching for my sister for the past three years on the paychecks from the fucking country club?” He wasn’t yelling, but I felt anger pouring out of him. “I fuck sad, rich women to pay my bills. I’m a shitty fucking person. Is that what you wanted to hear, Natalie?”
He moved from the kitchen into the living room and plopped down on the couch, draining the rest of his beer before slamming the bottle on the coffee table. I jumped, but he just stared at his clasped hands, his elbows on his knees and his head down.
Cautiously, I moved over to sit next to him. There was something about the torture in his eyes and the tenseness of his jaw that made me want to photograph him. His edges were so hard, but in moments like that I saw his softness. I almost reached for my camera, but thought better of it.
“I’m sorry, Rhodes,” I whispered as I sank down in the couch cushion next to him.
He cringed, shaking his head. “Don’t.”
I bit my lip. I knew saying sorry wouldn’t make him feel any better. He wasn’t just angry, he was embarrassed — and it was my fault.
“You pay for an investigator?” I asked and he nodded, head still in his hands. I swallowed. “Has he found anything?”
“Not yet,” he answered gruffly. “But I have to believe one day he will. Or believe she’s dead. I alternate between the two daily.”
My eyes skated over his skin as he breathed steadily, trying to calm himself. I watched his chest rise and fall, watched the muscles in his back strain and stretch against the thin fabric of his cut off shirt. I guess I should have been disgusted with his confession about the women from the club, but I only found myself yearning to take away the pain his words were laced with. I knew what it felt like to be embarrassed, to feel not good enough.
Before I knew what I was doing, my fingers reached out, touching the smooth skin of his forearm. He stiffened as I slid them lower, wrapping them around his wrist. He lifted his head to watch me and I tilted his wrist toward the ceiling, my heart thumping loudly in my ears. It was the first time I’d been brave enough to touch him.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again. Rhodes’ nose flared, his eyes closed tight. I was shaking, unsure of the movements my body was so confidently making without me, but Rhodes was perfectly still. Carefully, my fingers found the inside of his wrist and I pressed hard. “I can feel your heart too, Rhodes. You’re more than what you think you have to be.”