Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
I’m looking at a woman who pierces the numbness. I’m looking at a woman who belongs to me. How the hell can I think that? I went to prison for killing her dad, but it’s not a thought. It’s an instant tsunami of certainty.
She’s on the shorter side, with an open, friendly face. She’s got the sort of face I can imagine glowing with motherhood, which is an insane thought to let into my head, but there it is. She looks maternal and sexy at the same time.
Her hair is long, dark brown, and wavy. She has bright green and vibrant eyes. She’s wearing a plain T-shirt and jeans that don’t distract from her figure, curvy all the way, with wide hips made for grabbing, for childbearing, for me.
I’m almost panting, beast-like. I need to calm down. Of all the reactions I expected to have when first seeing this woman, it wasn’t this. She wanted to meet, so I thought I’d do my duty, but I never guessed she’d provoke this in me—an explosion of pure want.
“J-Jamie?” she says, with a gorgeous stutter, narrowing her eyes. “Jamie Williams.”
She says my full name almost like it’s a curse.
“Yes,” I reply, finally finding my voice. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you.”
Christ. Real smooth.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, then laughs awkwardly. “Well, not nice.”
“I get it.”
“I thought we’d have some soda on the porch. Is that okay?”
“It’s your house.”
She steps onto the porch, coming extremely close to me. She’s so near I can smell her perfume, or maybe it’s just her. It’s a pheromone that has me almost growling with how badly I want to tear her clothes off and glide my hands over her curves.
Or hold her close, savoring her scent, her heat, her.
I killed your dad. Now you belong to me. You’re my woman. You better not have a boyfriend, or maybe I’ll kill him too.
These are the insane things that jolt through my head, possible things I could say. I push them all down.
I see she’s already prepared the soda. She takes the lid off the bottle, upturns the glasses, wipes them down, and pours.
“Thanks for meeting me,” she says.
“You don’t have to thank me. It’s the least I could do.”
We sit opposite each other. I’m pathetically grateful for the table between us. It’s the only thing stopping me from grabbing onto her shapely legs. Or leaning over and pushing my lips against hers, subtly pouting as if her concern shapes her mouth. I could spend hours studying her, every inch.
Silence falls over us, and I take a sip of soda.
“I bet you wondered why I wanted to meet,” Lucy says.
“I was a little surprised when they told me,” I reply.
“I guess I’ve been holding onto a lot of pain. You know, losing my mom before I even knew her. I don’t remember her, and then my dad. Growing up on my own. My aunt passed last year, so now I’m really on my own.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
She shrugs, not showing any sadness, bravely facing the blunt truth of her reality. It makes me think of her as a mother again and meeting that challenge just as courageously.
“It’s not your fault. My aunt, I mean.”
Her dad is my fault.
“I’ve been thinking about what to say to you,” she continues. “I saw that documentary you were in. I saw that you’ve been writing novels. I’m studying to be an editor at a community college. I work at a restaurant too. Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“You never have to apologize to me, Lucy,” I say seriously. “Not for anything.”
She smiles fleetingly.
“I hope that documentary didn’t make it seem like we were having fun there,” I go on.
Two years ago, a crew visited the prison to interview some inmates. They became interested in me because I pled guilty the moment they arrested me, gave no explanation for the killing, and wrote twenty novels up to that point.
“Was it bad?” she asks.
“It was hell at times,” I tell her. “I can take care of myself, so I wasn’t beaten up often, but it did happen. When ten men gang up on one, things can get bad, but once you show you won’t take any crap, mostly, they’ll leave you alone. But the isolation, the cage, the loneliness…”
I expect her to say good and give me some evil eyes. I’d deserve it, but she just looks down at her soda for a long time.
Her captivating green eyes get a faraway quality, as though she’s lost in a thousand thoughts. I want to draw out each one, study them, and get to know her better than I know myself. I’m already sure she’s mine. How can that be? She could have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, for all I know.
“Are you going to try to find a publisher for your books?” she asks.