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)
Chapter 17
Angel
I don’t like feeling lost, carrying around a sense of being adrift, but my chest felt nearly caved in when I woke this morning.
Lauren was still asleep beside me, but that was expected with how much she drank last night. I spent long moments looking over at her, contemplating slitting her throat, but it didn’t take me long to decide that it wasn’t her fault I was so quick to spill my fucking guts after waking only two hours after falling asleep.
There’s nothing quid pro quo about this situation she seems determined to keep putting the two of us in. I don’t owe her anything. I wasn’t forced to make confessions just because she made her own.
I don’t know why I started talking, why I would’ve risked speaking about the shit I went through. She didn’t move, didn’t budge at the sound of my voice, and rather than being relieved, I felt a little disappointed that she didn’t hear me.
That was, of course, in the middle of the night when demons and things like regret seem just a little less dangerous. With the sunrise comes a new day and a way to shove all that shit back into the bottle. My secrets are safe. Her drunkenness assures it, but the sun also brought a disgusted sense of vulnerability.
I should’ve fucked her. That would’ve made me feel better. I woke up, my erection straining against the rough texture of the sheets, with her whiskey breath so close to my face I swear I could get secondhand drunk off of it.
And that just pissed me off even more. It’s a level of power she has over me. Some minor control she has with the ability to make me hard just by fucking sleeping.
I went through every ounce of her things. I checked pockets, scrolled through her phone, dug into every corner of her bag.
I found and smashed the fucking AirTag she left in my truck, and I wanted to kick my own ass when I discovered it just sitting in the passenger side door. I bet it thrills the shit out of her that I’ve been so fucking sloppy that she was able to track me so easily, but I put an end to that.
I left her with her shit strewn all over the motel room. There’s no point in hiding the fact that I went through her things. I want her to know what she did last night was incredibly stupid. It left her vulnerable, and she really needs to do better.
I manage to hide my shock when the bell rings above the diner door and she fucking walks in.
It doesn’t take her eyes long to find me tucked in the back corner which gives me visibility to everything that’s going on inside.
She looks miserable, her eyes tight and squinty, face free of any makeup. She’s exhausted. It’s clear in the slightly hunched set of shoulders, in the way each step looks like it’s taking her more effort than she’d like to use.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
She looks used and abused, and I let my gaze drift right back down to her neck, feeling bereft once again that my marks have faded away.
My cock threatens to thicken, a reminder that I could reapply those bruises in the bathroom here while fucking her, daring her to make enough noise for others to run to her rescue.
It won’t happen though.
Hell, this shouldn’t be happening.
I’m on the south side of Lubbock. I only stopped because I was in desperate need of coffee after getting little to no sleep last night.
She doesn’t smile. It seems she doesn’t have the energy to even fake it this morning.
I don’t question how in the hell she found me because this is another mistake I’ve made where she’s concerned. The visible AirTag was a decoy. I stopped looking when I found it, and it seems that was her plan all along. There has to be another one in my truck, or she’s somehow managed to put tracking software on my cell phone.
If I were the type of man to issue earned praise, I might do it, but her being in front of me just pisses me off. I wanted to rid myself of her. I wanted the time it was going to take to stop thinking about this bitch, and that’s impossible with her continuing to show up around every fucking turn.
I thought I taught her enough lessons, hurt her badly enough that she would leave, but she’s like an abused fucking dog, crawling back on her stomach, too terrified to wiggle her tail but hopeful there will be kindness in my hands the next time I touch her.
But that’s not true either, is it?
She craves the violence. She wants to be hurt, to be abused.
It’s her penance, her punishment, for her sister being on the receiving end of all of it when they were kids.