Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“But I have things I want to say to you.” He stands in the centre of the alleyway, his hands in his pockets and his feet planted wide, half of him in darkness, half in the glow of a nearby streetlight. “Things you need to hear.”
“There is nothing you could possibly say to change how I feel.” Tightening my hand on the strap of my purse, I bustle my way past, giving him the widest of berths. Yet I find his fingers on my arm anyway. His fingers on my arm, his heart in his eyes.
“Maybe not. But would you listen to me anyway? Please?”
I lift my chin in defiance of his words and then, against my better judgement, I nod.
35
Fee
So I allow him to lead me to a bar on the opposite side of the street that happens to be a sports bar; the New York version of a spit and sawdust joint. I duck under his arm as he presses the door open, holding it open for me and slide into a booth by the window while Carson heads to the bar. Huge TV screens and sporting paraphernalia hang from the walls. It’s after ten now, and like the bar I’ve just escaped, the crowd has thinned out.
I watch Carson from where I sit, my eyes running over the breadth of his shoulders with the kind of fascination I’m pleased he can’t see. Strong thighs and long legs. The sum of these parts well put together, other parts making no sense at all.
Why, Carson? Why could you let women use you like that?
Is it some kind of kink? Because this isn’t any ordinary type of prostitution.
“The wine selection isn’t great,” he says as he slides a glass of something that appears to be whiskey onto the table next to me. He takes a seat across from me, rather than next to me, and for that, I’m grateful. I can’t have him invading my space with his cologne and pheromones. It’s hard enough just to have to look at him.
“Is it okay?” he asks as I take a sip from my drink. I nod, ignoring the clink of the singular cube of ice and the memories it brings. Cold fingers and warm mouths. The kind of sex you only read about. The kind of connection that is felt only once a lifetime.
I still at Carson’s intake of breath and though I’d prefer not to look at him, I feel like I at least owe him my attention.
“I want to say sorry,” he begins. “I know it isn’t enough. One tiny word isn’t going to take away what I’ve put you through, but I want you to know that I could only see my own pain when you left. Like the magnitude of what I’ve done, who I’ve been, didn’t hit me until you were already gone.”
I don’t know how to answer that and though I’m normally the type of person who’d rather say something, anything, than leave an awkward, unfilled space, there is nothing I can add.
Nothing that would make either of us feel better, at least.
“I told you how Ardeo started, how the parties grew into their own entity.” I shrug. This isn’t something I’m likely to forget, though he bulldozes on. “How it gave the guys something tangible to look forward to. An outlet. A business. Money in the bank. But what I did wasn’t part of Ardeo. Not really.” Something like regret ripples across his countenance, his attention falling to the glass he’s nursing. “I never explained to you about my grandfather.”
“Please don’t tell me this is a family concern,” I mutter almost to myself.
His gaze lifts then, but not his head. “It concerns my family. But no, not like you’re thinking.”
“Are you an addict?” I find myself blurting out. Had I even thought that as possibility? Not consciously, at least.
“No.” His jaw tightens, his gaze sad but sincere. “And I didn’t do . . . what I did with great regularity. I wasn’t addicted to the act or to the thrill.”
“You don’t have to mince words to protect me.”
“Fucking then,” he adds baldly. I flinch. “No, it wasn’t a compulsion. It was always calculated and controlled.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” I snatch up my glass with an unhappy huff.
“You know that when we met in France, my grandfather passed the day before. He was the biggest influence in my life. Up until a few months before he died, his influence was positive. I knew he wasn’t well regarded by a lot of people. That he was seen as brash and offensive, but I put that down to jealously mostly. He was a very wealthy man and quite ruthless.” He swallows then, his eyes sliding away for a beat before coming back again. “I just didn’t realise quite how ruthless he was. I idolised him. I thought he was old-fashioned, and yeah, a little sexist. A man of his time, I guess. What I didn’t know was that he was an abuser, and that label covers a lot of sins but what I mean to say is he abused women. Used his power against them. The man was a rapist.”