Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
I’ll only ever be a mistake.
CHAPTER 17
ROMERO
I’ve never been any good at the “morning after” shit.
There’s a reason I’ve never stuck around after fucking a woman. Not in the past ten years, anyway. Get it done. Get the hell out as quickly as possible. I’m never a dick about it. Not that I deserve a medal or anything.
Before that, it was different. With Becky. We were kids who didn’t know any better. I thought I was in love, though you would’ve had to set my hair on fire to get me to admit it. Even then, I doubt I would have. Only pussies talked about stuff like that.
She was the first—and last, until now—I ever felt anything once my dick went soft and real life came back into the equation. No more lust, no more hunger. Years later, I understand more than I ever could back then. She was light. She was a refuge. She was a break from this house’s constant bleak, colorless world. I guess I figured we’d end up married one day, even if the idea never quite crystalized in my mind. Around here, kids sort of fall into situations like that. It was what you did. You found somebody, you started fucking around. Maybe she’d get pregnant and you’d end up an old man before your time.
Like my old man did. Damned if he didn’t make me pay for it just about every goddamn day after that.
A creak from upstairs startles me out of what was so deep it was almost meditation. I’ve stared out the front window long enough for my coffee to go cold, one memory after another leading me through the dark, twisted map of my past. Just as twisted as my guts at that sound from overhead. We’ve been here for weeks and I still can’t shake that instant, icy, sick reaction.
The sun has risen in the time I’ve spent staring out the window without seeing much of anything but what’s played across my memory. The distant past, the recent past. As recent as last night, in that club. I still smell her on me. I can almost feel her tight pussy clenched around my fingers. Her soft curls under my chin as she trembled and cried against my chest.
As massive a fuck-up as that was, I almost made it worse. I almost held her too long. I almost buried my face in her hair. Almost kissed her. Almost promised to make everything alright, always, for as long as I live. I almost called her mine.
And hours of thinking and cursing myself haven’t made what’s in front of me now any easier to stomach. I made this fucking mess. Now comes the time to clean it up.
I’m already no good at talking, sharing feelings, all that shit. Add in a night spent with my fingers up the wrong girl’s cunt, and you’ve got a recipe for discomfort – if not disaster.
Usually, I’m gone before the woman in question can ask me to stay. This is different.
I can’t leave, but that doesn’t mean shit. We have to talk, whether I want to or not.
You weak, pathetic piece of shit. Not the first time I’ve called myself that since last night. Not even close. She hadn’t even finished coming when I knew it was wrong and wished I could take it back. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never be able to wipe my memory clean of her disappointed, confused, almost childlike expression as she leaned against the wall and fought to catch her breath. I hope I never forget because I don’t deserve to.
The kitchen smells like fresh coffee and bacon by the time her footsteps ring out on the stairs. The sound stiffens my spine and tightens my jaw. It has to be this way. Every fucking time I let my guard down around her, something unforgivable happens. It stops now.
The hair on the back of my neck lifts when I sense her entering the room. Something shifts in the air. I don’t have to see her to know she’s watching me.
“I hope you’re hungry.” She doesn’t answer right away, so I glance toward her and my stomach clenches at the side of her in nothing but a thin T-shirt that barely covers her ass and a skimpy pair of black, lacy panties. Her hair is tangled and wild on top of her head, and the faint aroma of the perfume she wore last night still clings to her when she walks past me without a word, reaching for the coffee.
“You should get changed.” I keep my eyes on my work as I divide scrambled eggs and bacon between two plates. “Hurry, before the food gets cold.”
She picks up a plate from the counter and waits until I look at her to deliver her answer in a single word. “No.”