Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“You should probably head to your room,” he says, avoiding eye contact with me as he grabs his t-shirt from the couch.
I figured it would be at least an hour before he regretted what happened, but he seems to have a quicker recovery time than I initially considered.
I walk past him, a little heartbroken when he doesn’t reach out and try to stop me, to reassure me that things are fine.
The woman who stormed up to him and kissed him is gone.
Feeling hurt and a little used, despite being the one to put me in the situation, I head toward the bedroom.
“Ms. Holt?”
I freeze at the sound of Mrs. Brunello’s voice on the other side of the door.
Brent looks over at me, and I try to push down the sense of betrayal. Did he call her back over to confess his lies?
“Mommy! Let me in. I want to see my new room!”
At the sound of Ryder’s voice on the porch, I shove my legs into my panties and scrub bottoms. I wish I had a little better concern for hygiene, but it’s been over a week since I’ve seen my child. I don’t give a shit if Mrs. Brunello didn’t call to let me know I was getting a visitation here today. I won’t waste a second of time I get with him.
I take a step toward the door, but the mess between my legs can’t be ignored. I doubt Mrs. Brunello is the type of woman to be impressed with quickie sex midafternoon on the living room floor. If she knew, we’d probably be deemed some type of pervert.
“Please,” I beg Brent. “I have to get a quick shower.”
He nods, waving his hand down the hallway. I dart into my room and make it back into the hallway bathroom before he reaches the front door.
I take the quickest shower known to man, trying to wash as fast as possible and listen to the conversation going on in the living room, but the words are too low.
Fear wraps cold hands around me as I picture Brent telling her the truth and Ryder being gone by the time I get out of the shower.
I struggle into my clothes, having not taken enough time to get completely dry before trying to dress.
Regret begins to swim inside of me before I can pull the door back open. Had I not been so impulsive, I would be out there holding onto Ryder right now.
I take a quick glance in the mirror, praying the caseworker will mistake the pink in my cheeks for the hot water of my shower rather than the life-altering orgasms that really caused it.
I take a stabilizing breath before pulling the door open.
The living room is completely empty when I make it out. My heart shatters into a million pieces. Betrayal digs its way into my heart, and I realize that violent side of me that imagined all sorts of vile possibilities on the drive home may actually come to fruition.
What better revenge for me lying to him than making sure I don’t get my son back?
He had to fuck me first, of course.
What kind of man would turn down a willing piece of ass before throwing a grenade on someone’s life?
It only makes the revenge that much sweeter, right?
My hands are trembling as I head toward the front door, wondering if I’ll be able to catch her before she drives away with him. I could probably hurt her enough to get away with Ryder, but Brent’s a different story. He’d never let it happen. I have to take the chance though, right? I can’t let her take my son without saying a word. Tears don’t fucking help. They make no difference no matter how many I cry.
Movement draws my attention as I reach for the doorknob.
“He’s not my dad.”
I freeze, my eyes locked on the apparition of my son.
“Ryder?” I say like an idiot.
I was just imagining how I’d incapacitate Mrs. Brunello enough to take off with him, willing to resort to murder if it was required, and here he is, looking as stubborn as his father with his arms crossed over his chest.
I look up at Brent, who, despite my son’s declaration, has a grin on his face.
He winks at me, and the confusion just continues.
“Ryder?” I say again, holding my arms out but not invading his space.
I read an article on my phone today at lunch about the trauma kids can suffer even for a short time while in foster care. I spent the second half of my lunch bawling, out behind the building, until the guy from laundry came out to smoke a cigarette, interrupting my pity party.
I remember it saying that parents who are reunited with their children need to have a little grace and not try to force affection on them.