Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Kane’s in the middle of the sofa with both arms draped across the back as Christi and the brunette cuddle up next to him. The sounds of them laughing and Kane saying something in a low voice as they huddle closer to him are barely on my mind as I turn my focus back to my phone.
I text the driver and let him know I’m going to need the car in about thirty minutes then send him the address.
It takes fifteen minutes for the alcohol to hit their systems. Heavy pours and three shots each will have them all out on their asses. Normally I’d feel bad cutting their party short, but I don’t give a shit. All I can think about is Kat.
I need to get back to her.
With an asymmetric grin forced onto my face, I roll up my sleeves, letting the tats show. “Let me get it, doll,” I tell the blonde as I make my way to the kitchen. “You sit back and relax,” I add, taking the bottle from her hands. I’ll pour the second round while they’re throwing back the first. She gives me a flirtatious smirk. “I knew you weren’t all asshole,” she teases with a playful peek up at me and then sits on her knees next to the coffee table. Too close, too presumptuous.
“You had it right the first time,” I murmur under my breath as I fill all six glasses and pass them out.
“Let’s do a couple rounds and get this party started.”
Kat
“I’m stronger than this. I deserve so much more.”
They’re the words I breathe, then collapse on the floor.
My eyes close tight; tears trapped, lungs still.
I can’t speak the truth; I can’t fight the chill.
“I’m stronger than this.” I whisper the words, my face hot.
But I know I’m a liar, and I know that I’m not.
Evan almost never texts me when he’s working but he did tonight, and I can’t take my eyes away from my phone because of that little fact. In all the years we’ve been together, I can count on one hand when he’s messaged me while out on a job. I’ve never minded it; he’s working. I’ve never needed a message that said he missed me, I always knew he did and that he’d be home soon. I had work to occupy me while he was away. Come morning, there was always a message to greet me, but while he was out, he was simply unavailable.
My body’s still and my focus is nonexistent when it comes to work now, though. There’s not a damn thing keeping me company but the memories of us and the constant worry of what’ll happen when—and if—he comes home.
Staring down at my cell, I swallow thickly. He messaged me. He reached out to me. I can’t explain why it makes my bruised heart hurt even more. Maybe I wish he’d just be cruel and not try or not care. It hurts so much more to think that he’s trying. Hope is an odd little thing. I want to cling to it, but if I do, the inevitable fall will be that much more deadly.
He always messaged in the morning, though, after the late night of whatever the hell he’d been up to. I’ve always thought it was cute how he’d text me to tell me good morning, even if he was only just then getting into bed.
But it’s 2:00 a.m. in London, his prime time, and my phone’s lit up on the desk with a message from him.
I was finally getting some work done, the keys clacking and the to-do list shrinking somewhat although for every item crossed off, I feel as if I’ve added two. Focusing and managing to write up some feedback along with creating a marketing tactic for a client has been a highlight of my night … Until that message came through.
Half of me doesn’t want to answer him. Cue the grinding halt to any progress I’d made. I don’t want to read whatever he’s sent and go back into the black hole of self-pity. But I can’t resist. He is a drug and I am an addict. We could go days without speaking before, but in this moment, every second that I stare at my phone knowing there’s an unread message from him feels like an eternity in hell.
My hand inches toward it, the need to see what he has to say overriding the anger and the sadness. The need to be wanted by him and to feel loved winning out over my dignity.
So I click on the damn thing and my heart does a little pitter-patter of acknowledgment. When I swallow, it’s as if I’m shoving my heart back down where it belongs.
I hate it when you’re mad at me.
I stare at his message, feeling the vise in my chest tighten. My fingers hesitate over the keys as I read it again and again. Before I can respond, another message comes through.