Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Even if he’d done it begrudgingly.
And with anger.
Because there’s a lot of that here. Anger.
Hidden depths. Hidden things that I’ve only recently started to suspect but wasn’t sure about.
But instead of correcting him, I ask, “Why does no one know about this? About your father disowning you, taking out a restraining order against you?”
“Because that’s how my father did things,” he says. “In secret.”
“I-in secret.”
“Yes.” A pulse jumps on his bloody cheek. “Because he loved to play the good guy. The big man that could never do anything wrong. That everybody loved.”
They did love him, Mr. Howard Davidson.
And they hated his son.
Oh God.
“Is that…” I swallow. “Is that why you have a bike now?”
“Yes.”
“And the motel. Is that why you’re staying there instead of the manor?”
“Yes.”
“Because your dad took out a restraining order on you,” I say. “That’s why you haven’t been home in two years. Two years, two months and…”
Wait.
Just wait.
Is that a coincidence?
That everything in his life exploded almost exactly when it exploded in mine.
A chill runs through my body then.
Is it a coincidence?
“Interrogation’s over now. You —”
“No,” I tell him with determination, with dread. “Tell me if there’s a connection.”
“Echo —”
“Tell me if what I did is somehow connected to what your father did.” I swallow brokenly. “To you.”
“No.”
It’s a lie. It’s a fucking lie.
I know it.
I dig my nails in his heated biceps. “Just tell me the truth. I just want to know the truth.”
Please, please tell me.
I beg him with my eyes. With every breath I take.
With my whole body.
And I know when he gives in. His chest shudders with his own gusty breaths and his fingers loosen from around my wrists. “When I heard about what happened at the manor, about you being arrested, I…” He clenches his teeth, as if refusing to talk about it even now. But then, he goes on, “I wanted him to take back the charges. I wanted him to punish me instead. Because I was responsible for whatever you’d done. And so I offered myself up. And he accepted. Kicked me out of his will, disowned me, told me to stay the fuck away and all that crap.”
His eyes flash and flicker with his fury, with memories. “I thought if he took it out on me, he’d forget about you. He’d forget whatever he’d planned for you. But I guess I underestimated him. I underestimated how much he hated me. Because he didn’t leave you alone after all, did he? He sent you to St. Mary’s. And he did that because he knew how much I didn’t want him to. He did it because he knew how important it was to me that you remain,” another clench of his teeth, “safe.”
Safe.
He wanted to keep me safe. He wanted to protect me even back then.
So it was him then.
Not his father.
Like my parents thought. Like everyone else thought.
Like I thought.
It was him who kept me from ending up in juvenile detention, not the esteemed and generous Howard Davidson.
My mom even made me write him a letter, an apology letter, a grateful letter. For sparing me even though I acted so foolishly. For sparing my parents and letting them keep their jobs. And I wrote it happily too. I wrote it feeling guilty and grateful.
While the guilt part was legitimate, my gratefulness wasn’t.
It shouldn’t have gone to him.
It belonged to his son.
His second son, whom everyone thinks is a disappointment.
But he’s not, is he?
He’s the most wonderful guy I’ve ever met.
Most wonderful and layered and complicated.
“You… Y-you saved me.” He tenses under my hands. “And he punished you because of it.”
He leans over me then, braced on his arms, his hands splayed wide on the wooden structure — a table — that I’m sitting on, his body shifting.
At which point I realize that he’s standing between my spread thighs.
And those spread thighs of mine are actually wrapped around his hips rather than lying passively on the table. Maybe it should feel inappropriate — and I’m sure it is for a myriad of reasons that I can’t think of right now — but I don’t care.
I tighten my thighs around his hips even more, my limbs sliding along his sweaty, dense muscles.
If he notices me rubbing up against him, he doesn’t give me any indication.
His focus is on my face, on what he’s about to tell me.
“First, if my father hadn’t disowned me for this, he would’ve done it for something else. It was coming. Sooner or later. He probably chose that moment just for the hell of it. And second, I didn’t save you. I couldn’t save you. You still ended up at that school, didn’t you? Because of me. Because my father wanted to punish me.”
Then, scoffing, “Actually, knowing my father, he never would’ve pressed charges against you anyway. As I said, he loved playing the big man. The man everyone thought was so giving and generous. He probably would’ve let you go on his own, called a few reporters to give a big interview about being forgiving and whatever the fuck. He did it all because I interfered, because I let him know how much it mattered to me. I should’ve thought it through though. I should’ve…” He swallows thickly. “It was just that…”