Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Or maybe he killed them.
He didn’t kill her. He was playing televised poker for the last two nights, and last night he was here with me.
I take a fortifying breath and push the door open. At first I’m not sure I’m in the right room. What last night stood out to me as a large space with elegant, imposing furniture is now a clothes tornado. I immediately notice his huge dresser is missing two of its drawers, and atop the dresser, I can see a picture frame lying face-down, surrounded by shards of broken glass.
A quick glance around the room reveals Hunter standing by his hulking, four-post bed, pawing through a sea of undershirts and boxer briefs. Mixed in with the crimson pillows and blankets of his bed are two hefty dresser drawers. He’s bent over one, arms moving in a frenzy as he throws clothes every which way.
He doesn’t even glance up as I step closer. He doesn’t seem to know I’m here. His face twists in fury, and he tosses a handful of clothes at his headboard, where they land atop a pile of pillows.
“Hunter?”
He’s breathing hard, his face stark white, his mouth and green eyes standing out vibrantly against his skin.
He straightens, shoulders heaving as he sucks back air. He looks so furious, it’s like he’s in a daze. He’s not looking at me, but rather at something behind me.
Without moving a muscle or glancing my way, he whispers, “Go away.”
I follow his vacant gaze to the wall behind me and find that he is staring at a mirror. Staring blankly at himself. Not blankly. Desolately.
As I watch, he leans down on his bed, elbows on the mattress, face going into his palms as his shoulders hunch and one of his hands tunnels back through his messy hair.
I whisper, “I heard about Sarabelle.”
He whirls toward me. His mouth is twisted sharply, and his eyes are harder than I think I’ve ever seen.
“I’m so sorry. I know you knew her.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he murmurs hoarsely.
“I’m sure that’s true.” I hold his gaze. “But I could listen if you wanted to talk or something.”
“Wouldn’t help.” I watch the edge in his eyes give way to desolation, and I take a half step closer. When he doesn’t react, I close the distance between us and gently touch his elbow.
He jumps a little. “Jesus, Libby.” He lifts up his hand, like he’s going to touch me, but instead he takes an unsteady step back. “You need to get your shit and go. Just go.”
“I don’t want to go yet.” I want to wrap my arms around him, but he grabs my hand. His fingers grip mine and his eyes grow tortured. “I can’t make any promises...unless you go. Sometimes when I’m angry, I...”
Wreck bedrooms?
He swallows, and my eyes roll down his body. I’m surprised to find his long erection punching out against his jeans.
“Sometimes when you’re upset, you want to have sex?” I whisper.
He nods, just barely.
“That night at your house, you were upset, weren’t you? I saw your room. There was a broken wine glass and the pillows were all over the floor.” That was just after I’d heard him having sex with Priscilla. “Hunter…you should talk to me.”
His eyes slide over me, and I think it’s the most honest I’ve ever seen him look. I’m reminded, oddly, of an angry, despondent child before he reaches out and grips my shoulder.
“You should leave.” His voice is hoarse and low. “Libby, please. Turn around and leave.”
I bite my lip, and I consider doing just that. But I can’t. This is Hunter. And maybe I’m an idiot for feeling how I do, but when I’m with him, I feel good. More alive than I am without him, and that’s not something I can just let go of, even if it’s risky.
“Do you think that you could talk to me?”
Hunter looks into my eyes and I feel like he’s trying to communicate with just his gaze. Then, suddenly—roughly—he tugs me to his chest and wraps his arms around me. I feel his head come down on top of mine.
“Libby.” It sounds like he’s pleading with me. I close my eyes, wishing I knew what he needed, and his hands come up frame my face. “Why don’t you just do what I say?”
“I don’t want to go yet.” I clutch his biceps and press my cheek against his chest. “I really wish that you would talk to me. I’m a good listener.”
He nuzzles my face with his, his scruffy cheek rough on mine, before our mouths join in a kiss. I expect that it will quickly turn hard and fierce, but instead his lips are feather gentle, so soft it doesn’t feel quite real.
I pull him close and hungrily deepen our kiss. His tongue glides past mine and we’re moving faster, everything more frantic. He’ll pull off my mouth to gulp down air and then go right back at me. I’m doing the same. My whole body feels like it’s half melted—everything so shaky, sweaty, my heart beating like a drum below my tight throat. I’m feeling dizzy when he whispers, “Keep your eyes closed.”