Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
I want to make him feel like he’s loved. Like he’s wanted. Like he’s safe.
I stop at a bench by a park and check out social media. I’m getting good at this: assessing how things went, what was a hit and what was a miss. I think the message is mixed. Media outlets are reporting the spitting incident, and they’re covering it kindly but also not really in a positive way. The spin is sort of ‘Down-and-out Luke McDowell, Fighting the Good Fight…But Losing?’
Someone on Twitter posted a photo of Sky in my arms backstage. So that’s good. Got a fucking mole on our team. Still, my eyes well up looking at the two of us in the shot: my hand around his nape, my other arm around his lower back, the way our feet are intermingling, like we’re standing as close to each other as we can get.
I unblock him on my phone and walk slowly to some shops a little ways over, stopping into one of them for something I want to give Sky. Then I catch an Uber to some shops near our house—including the veggie burger place.
This is the price of all this shit, I tell myself as I walk toward our house. We can’t even take an Uber home.
But I don’t really care. My inner monologue can fuck off. I’d walk anywhere for Luke McDowell. If I can’t find him soon, I’m gonna fucking lose it.
My heart sinks when I get to the gate and Dara from security greets me on the cam.
“Luke back?” I ask, feigning casualness.
“You made it back first,” she says.
I nod. “When I get inside, you can sign off for the night.” I don’t need any extra people seeing me mope.
She nods. “I’ll monitor remotely. As always.”
“Sounds good.”
I feel sick when I see the two empty spaces in the garage. I’m surprised the door is open. Usually, it only opens for a clicker or a punch code. Maybe Dara got it for me. I take a step into the space and realize that the garage door light is off. It’s never off, not when the door is open. I look around.
“Come at me, fucker,” I growl.
No one does. I’m losing my mind.
Inside, I find Eden’s sleeping in the living room swing. Arrow gives a good report and acts like everything is normal; as if they don’t know I can’t seem to locate my husband.
“Thank you for everything,” I tell them.
“Absolutely. I’d be happy to help any time.”
“Do you need a ride or something?”
“Nah. My folks live right behind you, remember?”
“Oh yeah. Well, that makes sense.” I need a fucking coffee.
They smile.
“Hey, Arrow,” I ask as they reach the door to the garage. “Did you open the exterior garage door?”
“I don’t think so.” They look puzzled.
“It’s okay. No worries. Thanks again.”
I check the security room as Dara stands up from her desk to head out.
“Did you open the garage door?” I ask her.
“The exterior? No.” She sounds mildly alarmed.
“No one came in through that garage-hall door, right?”
“Definitely not.” She offers to check the cam footage to figure out who opened that exterior door, but fuck, I need the space cleared. I just want to be alone with Eden right now.
“Have a nice night,” I tell Dara as she heads out the front door.
“You too, Vance.”
I make a beeline for Miss Baby, smiling at her little self as she sleeps in the swing. The gas-lit fire is burning behind her, all cozy.
“Hey, cupcake.”
It’s the softest whisper, but it wakes her. She fusses until I pick her up and settle her in the crook of my arm. I sit on the squishy middle part of the couch and push a pillow under my elbow to keep it straining.
Then I lean my head against the couch’s cushy back and let my eyes shut as I bounce Edey.
My ringing cell phone wakes me.
Sky Babe
“Hey,” I answer, breathless.
What time is it? I blink at the clock, which says it’s a quarter till midnight. Shit.
“Hi.” He sounds unhappy.
“Hiya.” I make my voice gentle.
“Sorry.” Stormy Sky.
“It’s okay.” I’ll be sunshine.
“It’s not okay.” He sighs.
“You wanna fight about it?” I smile, shutting my eyes.
“No.”
When he says nothing more, I ask, “Where are you?”
“At the townhouse.”
Shit. “You went there?”
“Yep.” He sounds frustrated.
“Damn. Do we need to talk or something?”
“Well, I called.”
“What did you call to say?”
He blows a breath out. “Oh, just that I’m sorry. I’m just fucking everything up.” It always startles me when he curses.
“You’re not, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.” His voice sounds muffled. My heart starts to pound as Eden squirms and gives a soft cry.
“I’m always gonna you sweetheart. You know what else I’ll always do?” He doesn’t answer, so I murmur, “Tell you to come home.”
I prop the baby on my shoulder and head toward the kitchen. “We miss you.”