Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
After stripping out of my sweats and making sure my gun is on my bedside table, I drop to the itchy sheets.
I can’t fucking wait to be rid of this woman and back home.
Chapter 16
Lauren
“It’s not like you’re the only fucking person to live through tragedy.”
His voice startles me, but even through the haze of alcohol, I’m able to stay completely still.
I can tell I’m in the bed, despite not knowing how I got here. There’s only one way, but I refuse to think about him being kind enough to ensure some level of comfort for me.
He’s not a kind or generous man, so it may mean he hurt me while I was passed out. I take quick stock of my body, but other than the throbbing headache, I can’t perceive any other injuries.
Did he fuck me while I was asleep?
The thought of it makes my heart rate pick up. How fucked would that be? How utterly perfect?
But, no, I don’t sense that it happened. There’s no way of avoiding that burn his intrusion provides. It lasts for days, and I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. I want to tell him not to start going soft on me just yet, but I keep my mouth and eyes closed.
“My father murdered my mother right before my eyes. I did nothing. Probably still wouldn’t change what happened if I could go back to that day. You don’t see me getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself.”
I hate myself for my drunken confessions, but him doing the same in return doesn’t ease me of any regret. I don’t give a shit about this man. I don’t care what he suffered. Most days, I don’t care what I went through other than using it as the fuel for my self-destruction. I said those things because I couldn’t stop myself, not because I wanted pity or sympathy.
He sure as fuck better not expect any of that from me. He’s not going to get it.
I groan internally, knowing I spilled all of it. Liana killing my father before killing herself. Her being pregnant as a product of rape. My grandmother trash talking her because she’d never believe the truth.
Fuck, I told him about the diary and the necklace.
It makes me look weak for holding onto something as simple as a cheap necklace. I fucking hate weakness.
“My father is still alive, and I wouldn’t doubt he’s hurt another woman since killing my mother. It’s not like he was the type of man that could fucking survive on his own. Make his own bed? Wash his own clothes? Cook his own meals? Not fucking likely.”
His voice just does something to me that I can’t explain, and more than listening to what he’s actually saying, I’m just sinking into the bitter tone. He isn’t making excuses, isn’t saying he wished things were different like most people do. He isn’t speaking of regret and wishing for forgiveness for the things he couldn’t control as a child. He’s accepted them as they are, things he could never change.
We’re a lot alike in that sense I guess.
Both insanely fucked up and letting our pasts control who we are now rather than making any real effort to do differently.
“I think I’d kill him if I saw him today. Probably wouldn’t hesitate. Bullet right between the eyes, and the fucked-up part is that it wouldn’t be for killing my mother. She was weak and broken. I don’t think she would’ve been able to survive without him either. He kept her so beaten down, she’d struggle in life without his constant direction. No, I’d kill him for what happened after, for leaving me with his father. That man was vile, evil, a sadist.” His chuckle startles me, the unexpectant sound making the hair on my arms stand up with the menace it carries. “I hated him. Maybe just a fraction more than I hate you.”
He continues to talk, but weariness takes over. Instead of being able to retain what he’s saying, his words begin to feel like smoke on the breeze. I know they’re there, but it’s impossible to grab ahold of them. They’re like tendrils of thoughts, mine mixing with his until I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.
What’s evident with the way he continues is that he has no clue I’m awake and possibly taking any of this information and committing it to memory. As I start to drift once again, I realize it’s probably intentional. He’s very aware that even if I am awake, the bottle of whiskey I downed at a record pace will keep me from being able to use any of it against him.
Before long, darkness once again takes over, and it’s no surprise when I wake up that he’s gone.
Maybe I only dreamed of his perfection, his ability to give me what I need, his way of hurting me perfectly, all along.