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)
He wouldn't bat an eyelash if I died.
He wouldn't even hesitate to pull the trigger.
It's after one in the morning when I make it home. I tread lightly heading inside, making sure to be quiet, but the dog hears me the second I step through the door. He appears right there in the foyer, his hair bristling, a low growl rumbling his chest.
"Don't start with me," I mutter as I head to the den, pulling off my gloves, tossing them on my desk. He follows me, stalling in the doorway. "I've dealt with enough shit tonight. I don't need you hassling me on top of it."
"Me or the dog?"
Her voice is close.
Too damn close.
I didn't even notice her in here.
My eyes glance across the room, at where Karissa sits on the couch in the darkness. Her bare feet are propped up on the coffee table as she eats from a small carton of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, wearing nothing but a too-big t-shirt.
"The mutt," I say, strolling over and sitting down beside her. "I married you, so it's sort of your job to give me a hard time."
"Good to know." She points her spoon at me before scooping up a big chunk of whatever the chocolaty flavor is she's eating. "You were gone for a while. I woke up and you know... you weren't here. Wasn't sure where you ran off to."
"I didn't expect you to wake up," I admit. "Had something to take care of."
"And did you get it taken care of?"
"I did."
She nods and continues to eat her ice cream.
She doesn't ask me to elaborate.
Doesn't ask anything else about where I've been.
I can feel the tension, though. I've felt it coming off of her since yesterday when she got home. It's like a wall surrounding her, one I'm not sure how I'm supposed to break through.
"I'll tell you," I say, "if you really want to know."
She pauses eating, slowly pulling the spoon from between her lips. "I know you will."
She still doesn't ask.
Smart girl.
Sighing, she discards the spoon in the nearly empty carton and sets it down on the coffee table. Tugging the shirt down over her knees, she tucks her legs up toward her on the couch, wrapping her arms around them. She lays her head down on her knees, facing my way. Her eyes are cautious as they scan me. "Maybe we should move."
"If that's what you want."
"But I want you to want it, too."
"I've got what I want," I say. "I've got you. I couldn't care less where we live, whether it's here in New York or halfway around the world. So if you want to move, we'll move. I go where you go. End of story."
I don't know if she likes my answer.
It's true, yeah, but it's no help with her decision.
"Is there anywhere we can even go where I'll be able to sleep all night without you slipping out to handle things?"
I shrug. "Alaska."
"Alaska?"
"I'd never leave the house. It's too cold up there. My balls might shrivel up."
She laughs.
Her laugh is one I love.
It's soft and feminine and completely genuine.
"That would be tragic."
"Tell me about it. I kind of need those things."
"Well, there's always Nevada. California. Ohio. Florida."
"Not Florida."
"No?"
"I'm not a fan."
She regards me cautiously again. "Maybe we should just stay right here."
"If that's what you want."
"I don't know," she says. "I don't know what I want."
"Let me know when you figure it out."
She rolls her eyes, standing up and grabbing her carton. "I'll be sure to do that."
Reaching out, I grasp her arm, stopping her before she can walk away from me. "I'm trying, Karissa. I don't know what more I can do."
"I know," she says. "It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
She hesitates, like she's considering not answering, before she lets out a resigned sigh. "Do you think I'm a bad person?"
Out of everything in the world she could've said, that wasn't even on my list of possibilities. I'm stunned to even hear her ask that. Her? A bad person? "Of course not. Why would you even think that?"
"Because I'm here."
Her answer is automatic.
Her panicked expression tells me she didn't mean to say it out loud.
"Because you're with me," I elaborate for her, "and because I'm a bad man."
"No, I didn't mean--"
I pull her to me, silencing her before she can even try to explain herself away. It's pointless. I know what she means. I don't need her to backtrack about her feelings. "Look, I make no apologies for who I am, or for what I've done, but none of that is a reflection on you. The fact that you love me doesn't make you like me."
"But what if I am like you?"
"You're not."
"But—"
"You're not," I say again. "You love a sinner. If anything, that makes you a saint."
She smiles, leaning down to kiss me softly. "I'm heading to bed, Naz."
"Is that your way of getting out of this conversation?"
"Maybe," she says, before whispering, "good night."
"Did you know... and this might be shocking... but Napoleon Bonaparte wasn't short at all?"
A few people murmur in response to Rowan's declaration, but most, like me, are just listening in silence. While I'll give him credit, he's a more interesting professor than most, there's only so much he can do to excite us about the Napoleonic Wars.
"He was actually, by modern measurements, just shy of five feet seven inches, so he was as tall as I am," he continues. "The rumor likely got started for a few reasons, one being he's listed at only five-two on his death certificate, but those were French increments. He was actually above average height of his time, but he surrounded himself with much taller guards, which just made him look smaller. Fascinating, isn't it?"
Fascinating?
Not the word I'd use, but whatever floats his boat.
Class is over, technically, and people around me are packing up to leave, but the professor is still speaking, clearly passionate about the subject.
"For next Tuesday, I'd like a paper on why his height even matters. Two pages, double spaced!"