Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
I can handle this. I can deal with the pain in my chest on my own because it’s what I have to do.
As I enter my condo, I realize I’ve never felt so alone in my life.
Before, I could just go to work or get a run in. I could go to the bar and pick up a hot chick, but just thinking of doing any of that makes me sick to my stomach.
I feel like my choices have been taken away, and how fucking stupid is that? I could do anything I want. No one controls me or my actions, and yet, somehow, I know I won’t do anything that would compromise what I thought Archer and I were building, despite knowing that it’s over.
I grit my teeth as I walk through my condo, not even bothering to turn on any lights. I’ve spent so much time at Archer’s house, this place no longer really feels like home.
I’ve unintentionally displaced myself, and I kind of hate myself for it.
I don’t know if it would’ve been better if I had the courage to ask Deacon to pull me this morning, but at least it would’ve been on my terms. I know it’s not the fact that Archer has rejected me. It’s that he doesn’t want me to begin with that’s killing me.
I’ve changed, but clearly, he hasn’t.
He uses them up.
People aren’t important in his life unless they can do something for him.
He just chews people up and spits them out before moving on to the next person he can manipulate.
Fletcher said it all, didn’t he?
I didn’t believe the words at the time, but I guess I better start letting them sink in because I’ve just become Archer Bremen’s latest fucking discarded toy.
Chapter 28
Archer
The knock at the door comes as a surprise, but Brooks standing in front of me when I open it is the bigger surprise.
He’s made it very clear with his actions that he’s only around in a working capacity. For the last several weeks, he doesn’t even get out of his SUV when he takes me to Dr. Kent’s office or my yoga class. He doesn’t speak to me on the drive. He doesn’t order lunch like he used to.
After the second day of this happening, I started climbing in the back seat. If the man wanted to be my chauffeur and nothing else, then so be it. I know I started the silent standoff after coming home to find Fletcher in the house, but he has taken it to a whole other level.
“Brooks?” I swallow hard, trying to figure out exactly how I should respond.
The man looks broken. His hair is a tousled mess. His eyes are sad and rimmed in red as if he’s been crying. There’s a tremble in his hand as he reaches up and rubs the muscle right over his heart as if the thing hurts and he can’t ease the pain.
“Come in,” I say, stepping to the side when he doesn’t speak.
He shuffles past me as if his legs weigh a hundred pounds each and the effort takes all the energy he has.
Princess yips at him from the couch, but she doesn’t garner a second of his attention.
Brooks doesn’t stop in the foyer, and I watch his back as he climbs the stairs.
Am I meant to follow him? Does he want to be here but also be alone?
It’s the silence that kills me. It’s been tearing me apart for weeks.
The distance between us after all we’ve shared comes in a close second, and although I tell myself to just leave the man alone, I know I can’t. I’m incapable of having him here and not being close.
I close and lock the front door, resetting the alarm before making my way up the stairs.
I find him in my room, staring down at my unmade bed.
I want to reach for him, to comfort him, to let him know he’s safe here with me, but I don’t know what kind of reaction that’s going to get.
“Brooks?” I ask again, not really expecting a response since I didn’t get one downstairs.
He turns to face me.
“I need you,” he whispers, his voice small and shattered.
I don’t recognize the man before me. He isn’t bleeding confidence or holding his head high. There’s no level of determination on his handsome face.
“I’m here,” I tell him, my own emotions bubbling out at seeing him this way.
I take a couple of steps closer to him, but he doesn’t reach for me.
He clears his throat as if he’s going to speak, but no words leave his mouth.
My hand is shaking when I reach up and cup his face. I need him to look at me, to explain what the hell is going on. My mind is racing with horrible possibilities. Has there been a death in his family? One of his colleagues?