Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
He wasn't a man I could easily look away from, but knowing now who he was, the thought of meeting his gaze made me anxious. Would he look different to me? Would I see traits I hadn’t noticed before? Features that reminded me of Trent or Collin?
I gathered my nerves, clenched my shaking hands, and raised my head.
He hadn’t moved from his chair, sitting at a right angle to mine, studying me with deep golden eyes, the emerald rings around the irises intensifying his stare. Lips compressed in a line, his jaw the definition of stern. “Ask your questions.”
Jesus, where to start? All the horrible things my family had done made me question my safety, made me question everything. What if they were listening? Watching us right now? The hairs on my nape bristled with paranoia. “This isn’t the place to talk.”
He glanced around the room and back to me. “There aren’t any bugs. I already checked. If you and I met outside this office, it would cause suspicion.”
Given the way he’d pulled off his blackmail, I trusted he knew what he was doing. But he wasn’t making decisions based on my best interests. He'd lied to me from the first day we'd met. I shouldn’t trust a word that came out of his mouth. But the documents he showed me? Of course, I'd verify them myself, but I knew enough about my family to know it was all true. That was something I could trust.
I flattened the envelope on my lap and flexed my fingers. “Your mother and Trent…” How did I ask this? He’d just given me proof that Trent had a history of rape, and I knew firsthand the kind of vile harassment my father-in-law was capable of. “Were they lovers?”
“No.” The quiet fury in his voice chilled a path down my spine. “He met her in LA thirty-three years ago. I was born a year later.”
Trent was already married then. I rubbed my temples, tried to massage away the rising tension. “Collin and I would’ve been four-years-old.”
He nodded, his face tightening. “She died when I was thirteen.” He looked away, staring hard out the window with so much anger etched in his rugged profile. “She kept a diary. Always had it with her. Not once did she write about her interactions with Trent. But it included journals about her lovers.” He met my eyes. “My mother was a lesbian.”
My chest caved in as I filled in the blanks. Then another thought, a recent memory with a different man, brushed the back of my mind. I’m very angry with my mother. She didn’t leave me by choice. Left me with nothing but this anger.
Before I could examine that, he handed me another paper, a news article. I didn’t want to look at it, unsure how much more I could handle.
When he gave an impatient nod at the clipping in my hand, I unfolded the tattered edges and read silently.
The body of Motorcycle Hall of Fame’s Maura Flynt found in an Ohio hotel room.
Hotel staff discovered her body on the bed, her throat cut, and a large butcher knife on the pillow. At the time staff arrived, the body was cold and had evidently been dead some time.
There was more, but the words blurred together, forming gruesome images that bled their way into my throat, my eyes, my heart.
“I was there.” His voice rasped from a couple feet away, yet he sounded so distant, lost in a different time and place. “I watched it happen, hidden beneath the bed.”
I couldn’t breathe as the words shaved away a layer of his coarse exterior, giving me a glimpse of the vulnerable boy in that hotel room. His shoulders curled forward, his chin tucking. It was a brief glimpse. He quickly straightened his spine, and the uncompromising set of his jaw returned.
Part of me hated my weakness for him, but dammit, I didn’t want him to hide from me. I wanted to see him, the man who was so much more than a deceptive one-night stand. He’d been open about his reasons for betraying me, forcing me to look at the harsh reality without sugarcoating his role in it. But it was his regret for hurting me that weakened the wall between broken trust and second chances.
Oh, I was still hurting, and that pain was magnified by the choices I had to make with regard to my family. But I put that aside and let the thump of my heart pull me forward.
I set the documents on the floor, rose from the chair, and slid onto his lap. His arms folded around my waist with an intimacy that was familiar yet so different than our night together. It was an exchange of vulnerability, a difficult gift to give, but one that could make a person realize what it was they really needed.