Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
When she burrows her tear-drenched face into my pecs, I hold her tight while whispering silent promise after silent promise into her ear. I remind her she is safe before apologizing for my stupidity earlier, then I tell her I can’t promise not to do it again because you can’t be an asshole without asshole traits. It’s rule number one in the asshole rule book.
That gets a giggle out of her.
“You’re an asshat,” she whispers into my chest several long seconds later.
“Never denied it, Jessie.” I swallow to relieve my parched throat before asking something I should have asked an hour ago. “Did he hurt you? Is that why you’re upset?”
The hammering of my heart weakens a smidge when Jess shakes her head. “He didn’t get a look in.”
It isn’t the time to laugh, but I can’t help it. I saw the footage, and although there were a handful of incidents that have me wanting to black out in rage, Jess handled the situation well.
After stepping us out of the spray so I can excuse the shakes hindering my body on the nippiness in the air, I ask, “I don’t mean physically, Jess. Did he hurt you in other ways?” I lick my dry lips. “Not just tonight. Before as well.”
It feels like night turns to day before she answers me with a faint head bob. Even though her answer has me desperate to ask for more information, I know how much strength it takes to tell the truth because it is the courage I’ve yet to find.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Her tears sizzle on my chest. That’s how hot with anger I am, but I hide the fact I want to rip Warren’s head off with my bare hands when Jess murmurs, “Not yet.”
She’s still processing everything, and in all honesty, so am I.
How am I standing in the shower, drenched from my chest down, and not freaking out? Don’t get me wrong, I’m shaking like all fuck, and the puddle of wetness sloshing in the bottom of my shoes has my mind flashing back to the first time he touched me, but most of the rage making my skin hot is for Jess. It has nothing to do with my fucked-up childhood.
“I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
Jess holds me as tightly as I am her before murmuring into my chest, “Does that mean you’re leaving?”
You can hear my grin in my reply, “Nah. Not yet.” She whacks me in the stomach, vocalizing my smile even more when I mutter, “You’d look a little funny leaving the shower with shampoo stuck in your hair.”
“I was washing my hair when…”
Her silence speaks volumes. Sometimes the simplest tasks have the greatest impact. I can’t use the bathroom without having an anxiety attack. Jess most likely can’t wash her hair without recalling how her douchebag-ex pushed her head into a mirror.
When I step her back until her hair is swamped by the water pumping out of the showerhead, some of the sadness in Jess’s eyes switches to awe. In silence, she watches me take care of her like my father did my mother when she walked in on my grandfather hanging from the rafters of his church. He wiped away her tears and promised her she wouldn’t have been able to alter the outcome no matter what she said or did.
His response was completely different than the response Octavia’s father had. He screamed loud enough for three blocks over to hear, then he continued badgering Octavia and her mother until Octavia’s mother cracked under the pressure.
My father truly loved my mother, and although I wasn’t his child, he loved me too. That’s why I found it so hard to tell anyone what had happened to me. I didn’t want my mom to leave me like Octavia’s mother left her, so I kept my mouth shut.
I’d like to say my gallantry was rewarded.
Regretfully, it wasn’t.
My mother died only three years after Octavia’s. It wasn’t suicide, but her accident claimed the life of both my parents. My father hasn’t been the same since.
“Caleb…” It takes Jess calling my name another two times before I register that I zoned out with my fingers knotted through her hair.
When I drop my eyes to her, her lips curve into an apprehensive grin. “Want to talk about it?”
Her exhale ruffles my shirt even with it being drenched when I shake my head. I came here to help her, not wade through twenty years of grievances.
Although the tension is still thick enough to cut, it eases a little when I squeeze a generous dollop of conditioner onto my palm, then massage it into Jess’s scalp. I act ignorant of the gritty scar at the back of her head, but try as I may, I can’t pretend I haven’t noticed the drastic difference in her hair. It’s not sitting on her shoulders like it was earlier. It’s furling around her ears.