Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 127390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
The roar of his bike alerted me to his arrival, followed by a thump as he took off his boots at the front door. He didn’t come into our room immediately. Murmured voices carried to where I laid as he likely said goodbye to Lucky, who’d been watching Charmed in our living room.
The front door closed.
Lucky left.
Still no footsteps heading to our bedroom.
A clang of glasses and bottles told me what he was doing.
I should’ve stayed in bed. Should’ve squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep until he stumbled in here or until I woke up to an empty bed and my husband sleeping on the couch.
Instead, I pulled back the covers and got out of bed. I did not go for my robe or my slippers because I worried that would make me look like the cliché shrew of a wife. Then again, he was coming home late, reaching for the whisky bottle, so he was swimming in clichés too.
I checked on Jack first, placed my hand on his little chest, pulled up his covers and closed his door quietly. Then I did the same to our sleeping toddler. She had been a good sleeper since the beginning, and I was thankful for that now. I had a feeling this was going to get loud, and despite Jack being a heavy sleeper, I did not want his early memories being his parents screaming at each other.
Ranger was standing at the kitchen counter when I walked in. There was only a dim light on in the corner, cloaking him in shadow.
He knew I was there, but he didn’t look up. His shoulders were slumped. Everything about his posture screamed defeat. I sighed, forgetting my anger because my love for my husband would always trump that. My heart would always hurt seeing him look like this, knowing how much he carried on his shoulders.
He needed comfort. Our marriage needed repairing, sure, but nothing would get fixed if my first instinct was to give him anger instead of understanding.
I stopped abruptly when I got close enough to smell it. It was so strong that I thankfully didn’t need to get any closer to him for it to blanket my skin.
Perfume. Cheap. Fruity. Not the kind I wore, but definitely on brand for a woman who hung out at a biker club trying to fuck anyone in a cut.
The only reason I didn’t double over in pain was because I was pretty well versed in how to cope with it. I’d gone through childbirth. Losing a baby. Burying my best friend. I knew how to feel bone wrenching pain and still stand.
My hand was shaking when it found the light switch. He did not deserve to get to hide in the shadows and down whisky right now.
No, the mother fucker needed all the harsh light in the world to shine on him right now.
Still, he didn’t look at me. His gaze stayed firmly fixed on his glass of whisky.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t look at me either,” I whispered.
He picked up the glass and downed it, immediately pouring another. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
My blood boiled. “I don’t want you to say anything. I want my husband to come home not smelling like a whore. But then again, we obviously don’t all get what we want.”
He shuddered ever so slightly at my words but still didn’t look at me.
“Did you fuck her?” I asked, making sure to make my voice as flat and cold as I could. I needed to prepare for the answer. Needed to shield myself against the truth I already knew.
Ranger didn’t have the arrogance to look shocked or offended. He didn’t have the compassion to look sorry either. Not now, not in the middle of this ugly situation. This horrible period of our relationship.
“I kissed her,” he said, in the same cold, flat tone I’d adopted.
I nodded once, even though the pain was blinding, all consuming. A knife through my belly, tearing through the skin so my insides hit the floor. The kind of wound that killed you slowly, but not before you’d been through the worst pain you could ever imagine.
“Once?”
He narrowed his eyes, his mask faltering as uniquely male rage filtered in. “What the fuck difference does it make how many times I did it? I did it.”
He hated himself. I saw that, beneath all the anger he was trying to use to cover it up. He might not have been sorry—in this moment, at least—but he was neck deep in self-loathing.
Ranger was an honorable man. Lived by his own code. All the Sons did. Now, a lot of those Sons, the ones with Old Ladies, they had different kind of codes when it came to fidelity. Like, if you were in a different state it didn’t count. If she didn’t find out. If you didn’t take off your cut. You get the gist.