Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I watch the side of her face as she works, knowing I can trust her with everything, but wonder what the point would be. Whatever I had with Drake is over. I think I dodged a bullet, and it’s only my hormones, the things he was capable of doing to my body, that I miss.
I’m able to keep silent as she dries my wound. My lips are sealed when she puts some kind of antiseptic cream on it. I’m still silent as she wraps a bandage around it.
It’s when she’s no longer facing me, putting away the supplies that I start to cave.
“I wanted to talk to you about—”
“Mrs. Ali! Pee pee!”
“Give me a few minutes and we can talk.”
“We can talk later,” I tell her as I stand, already making plans to avoid her by the time I leave the nursery.
Chapter 30
Drake
“Just one more?” The pleading in her voice threatens to break my heart.
I didn’t understand addiction very well until recently. I now know what it’s like to yearn for something I know isn’t exactly healthy for me.
“Nope.” I shake my head for good measure. “Let me get you a cab.”
“I need a whiskey, not a cab,” Maude snaps, her face nearly as bright as the lipstick on her teeth.
“Don’t get mean, Maude,” I say, my voice as soothing as I can manage, dealing with the woman.
She’s grown more and more belligerent in the last several weeks, and instead of smiling, wondering what kind of antics she’s going to get up to when I see her enter the bar, I’ve started cringing at the sight of her. It’s clear that she has some things going on in her life, but I can’t take on the responsibility of trying to fix the people in this town. I have my own freaking problems to deal with.
She’s to the point of cussing me out when I turn my back to call the cab company.
“You aren’t talking about my good friend like that are you?”
I look over my shoulder to see Ugly looking down at Maude, a half-grin, half-chastisement on his lips.
“Why don’t you buy me a drink, handsome?”
“It looks like you have one,” Ugly says, pointing to the complimentary coffee I brought her only moments ago.
“Give you five dollars if you grab me a shot to add to it,” she bargains.
“How about a double the next time I see you?”
She smiles up at him like he’s the sun and stars. He keeps talking to her until the taxi shows up, being a kind man and helping her into it.
I thank him, sliding a mug of beer in his direction when he returns.
“She’s getting worse.”
“No thanks,” he says, pointing to the beer. “Just a Coke for me, please.”
I don’t question his change in routine. It’s not my job to grill everyone who arrives and doesn’t want to drink alcohol despite it being a damn bar.
“Two pitchers,” Bishop, who I was introduced to at the party I bartended at for Kincaid not long ago, says as he approaches the bar. He faces his teammate. “Get your girlfriend all sorted?”
Ugly scoffs, but I can sense the irritation flowing off him where this man is concerned. It’s unusual to see two of the guys not really getting along.
I fix the pitchers, taking Bishop’s money when he offers it to me. Ugly keeps his eyes averted until the other man leaves the bar, carrying the beer back to the other two newer members of Cerberus, who have taken up their normal spot in the far back corner.
I’m not surprised that Boomer isn’t with them. I have no doubt it will be a very long time before I see him again. I haven’t texted or tried to call, but neither has he. I’m certain that whatever it was that was starting between us has already died an excruciating death. I know I feel grief from it ending, but I doubt Boomer does. It was too easy for him to walk away for it to really bother him, more than a week later.
“What’s that all about?” I ask, wanting to distract myself with someone else’s drama, than focusing on mine.
“I drank that night they came to town. He thinks I’m an immature idiot.”
“You don’t normally get drunk,” I say, honestly not able to recall a time that he stumbled out of the bar or needed help to get home.
“It was a weird night. He’ll get over it.”
“Let me know when you need another refill,” I tell him, topping of his soda before moving to the other end of the bar to close out a tab for another regular who waved me down.
“Her husband died last month,” Bill tells me.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, feeling like I missed half the conversation.
“Maude. Her husband died last month,” Bill explains.
“That’s really sad,” I say with genuine concern. “She’s never mentioned a husband.”