Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 111768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
It cuts straight through my darkness.
With her, I almost feel light.
I head upstairs and strip out of my suit as soon as I reach the bathroom. I don't bother to turn the light on, navigating it in the darkness. A small nightlight is plugged in above the sink. It's really all I need. My eyes fix on my reflection in the mirror as the water warms up for my shower.
I'm not sure if it's just my perception, but I look older than my thirty-eight years.
I certainly feel older, too.
I feel like I've lived more than one lifetime, each of them lasting an eternity. An eternity of rage, and resentment, and wrongdoing… it takes its toll on a man, that's for certain. But none of it had half as much effect on me as this past year. Something I learned was sentiment can take it out of you. I used to have no regard for myself—or anybody, for that matter. I had no reason to live anymore. But now that I care about what happens to her—and for her sake, me—I'm growing exhausted from the constant worry.
Worry my past will catch up to us.
Worry that she'll be the one to pay for those sins.
It's the consequence, I think, of loving me.
The consequence of being with someone who lived so carelessly.
As steam starts to fill the bathroom, I step into the shower, letting the scalding spray wash away today. It can't be more than a minute or two later when a sudden blast of cold air surrounds me.
Somebody opened the bathroom door.
The shower curtain is pushed aside, and I glance that way, my eyes meeting Karissa's. She's not laughing anymore, but the amusement is still etched all over her face. Without a word, she starts to strip, flinging her clothes behind her onto the floor.
"Is there something you need?" I ask, raising an eyebrow as my gaze trails along her exposed skin. Brave woman she's turned out to be. "Something I can do for you?"
"Maybe," she says, climbing into the shower with me, flinging the curtain closed again. It's so dark I can barely see her. "Or maybe it's something I can do for you."
She drops to her knees in front of me, right there, under the water. Her hand wraps around my cock, stroking it, her grip firm. A voice in the back of my mind tells me to stop her, reminds me she doesn't belong on her knees, reminds me that after everything I've done, I should be the one worshiping her. She deserves it. But her mouth is on me before I can say anything, her lips wrapping around my cock as she takes me in, and I forget.
I fucking forget.
I forget I've ever had a worry in the world.
It's just that good.
"Jesus, Karissa," I groan, running my fingers through the wet locks of her hair. "I wish I knew what I did to deserve you."
"Today, ladies and gents, we're going to dive into the topic of war."
Adjunct Professor Rowan Adams stands in the middle of the classroom, his hands absently drumming against his pants legs, as he looks around at all of us. We're in a familiar classroom… the same classroom I once took philosophy in. They seem to think enough time has passed that people wouldn't be affected anymore, and maybe they're right, I don't know. All of the makeshift memorials that popped up after his death are long gone. But what I do know is that I'm freaked out by it, even if nobody else around here is.
Three weeks into the semester and it still gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Professor Adams, who insists we call him Rowan, is a far cry from the kind of teacher Santino had been. He's open, and kind, and patient. I've never heard him belittle anyone. He's also young, late 20s at most, barely out of college himself with a degree in something or other. Okay, I hadn't exactly paid attention, but I'm guessing History¸ since that's what he's teaching. So maybe it's his age, or maybe it's just his temperament, but he runs this room vastly different than Santino had.
"Give me some reasons why people go to war."
Answers are shouted out all around me.
"Revenge."
"Pride."
"Stupidity."
"Fear."
"Protection."
"Love."
Rowan acknowledges the answers one by one, smiling as he points toward the source of it, before zeroing in on that last one. He swings toward the guy who shouted it… a guy who happens to be sitting right behind me. Ugh. "Ah, yes, love. But the love of what specifically?"
"Country."
"God."
"Women."
Again, it's the guy behind me who shouts out the last one, the one that gets the professor's attention. He turns back to him, grinning. Most eyes in the room shoot that direction, almost like it's instinct, and I slouch down further in my seat, not wanting them to notice me. I learned my lesson last time. I'll never draw attention to myself again.
"The love of a woman," Rowan says. "There's no more valiant reason, is there? Whether it's to defend her honor or prove their own worth, men have been fighting wars since the dawn of time all because of the love of a woman. Cleopatra… Helen of Troy… we all know their stories… but today we're going to talk about Bathsheba."
He wanders by the desk at the front of the classroom—a desk he never sits at—and snatches a Bible off the top of it.
"During the fight for the Holy Lands, King David found himself transfixed by a woman named Bathsheba. Problem was, Bathsheba was married to one of his soldiers—Uriah. That troubled King David, but not enough to keep him from sleeping with her. The two had an affair, but King David, deep in love, wanted her all to himself, especially... especially... after she became pregnant. Imagine the scandal! So come the Battle of Rabbah, David ordered Uriah to the most dangerous position on the battlefield, knowing the soldier wouldn't make it out alive. His enemies took care of his rival for him. Problem solved."
Rowan pauses, looking around to see if we're getting the point of it.