Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Fuck, being inside his tight little hole was heaven. A bliss I’ve never known. I vaguely remember sex with Serra when I was a teenager, but I don’t remember being so consumed by it. I don’t remember feeling like my soul was tangled up in the sexy act like it is with Tate.
Tate is different.
Perfect in every way.
He groans in his sleep and smacks his lips. My chest is wet with his drool where he sleeps. Since he apparently likes to sleep in and I’m an early bird, at least I won’t have to worry about him seeing me without my mask.
Guilt pokes holes in my heart, quickly draining it of what little happiness and life was flowing inside.
If there were anyone deserving to see the real me, it’d be him. But what happens when he’s terrified of what he sees? I can’t let him see that monster. Ever.
As much as I crave to lie in bed with him all morning until the sleepyhead finally wakes, I know I can’t. Not because of him seeing me mask-less either. I have a lot of work to do. First order of business will be the porch and cameras. Then I can dig into his ex to see what I can do about it.
I slide out from under Tate’s sleeping body and plant a quick kiss on his parted, slobbery lips. Funky, from his perch on Tate’s abandoned pillow, meows at me but doesn’t move. He likes to lie in bed all morning too.
After a quick shower and getting dressed, I head into my office, now protecting everyone around me with my mask. I remember back when the masks became a “thing.” Grandpa initiated it and Dad was pissed.
“Nathan,” Grandpa warns. “He needs help and I’m helping him.”
Dad, who pats a sleeping Gemma, hisses, “A fucking mask, Dad?”
I’m sitting on the steps at Grandpa’s house, listening in on their argument down the hall in the living room. I reach up a bandaged hand and touch the latex that covers my face. It’s the first time in fucking months that I’ve felt…okay.
“He busted every damn mirror in this house,” Grandpa bites back. “Had to call Bill out to stitch his hands up. It’s because he can’t look at his reflection anymore. I did what I thought was best.”
Gemma, my newborn little sister I haven’t even been able to look at or much less hold, whimpers in her sleep and I wonder if she’ll wake. The two men go quiet for a few seconds and then Dad continues.
“He needs a therapist, not a mask.”
I wince at Dad’s words. A therapist? Hell no. They’ll want me to talk about the fire, how much I hate myself, and my dead mother. Fuck. That.
“It’s either this or we lose him,” Grandpa says with a sad sigh. “He’s been living here since the accident, and though I think it’s best to have a change of scenery for him, he’s not exactly improving. Just the other day Violet found his shaving razor busted apart. I think he’s been cutting himself.”
The scabbed over lines on my forearm tingle. Why was I so stupid to leave out my evidence?
“Fuck,” Dad chokes out. “He needs real help. I’m going to have to hospitalize him.”
“No,” Grandpa growls. “He needs space and time. We’ll make sure he doesn’t get a hold of anything sharp and will keep a close eye on him, but you can’t take him away. Not now. He’s holding on by a fucking thread.” Grandpa’s cane clacks across the floor. “You go take care of that new wife of yours. The twins too. You’re needed over there. I’ll make sure Jude is all right.”
I can tell their conversation is over, so I hightail it upstairs, through Grandpa’s office, and up to his man cave. It’s the only place I can truly breathe. I find an Eagles album and turn up “Hotel California” before falling onto the lumpy sofa.
Is Grandpa telling the truth?
Will he make sure I’m all right?
I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.
It seems like yesterday that I saw the disgusting guy staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. He killed Mom. I hated him more than anything I’ve ever hated in my entire life. Rage, unlike anything I ever felt, consumed me. I went on a rampage, punching every mirror in the house. By the time Grandpa figured out what had happened, my hands, especially my knuckles, were a shredded, bloody mess.
“Morning, hon,” Violet says, following me into my office with a plated breakfast sandwich and a cup of coffee. “Sleep okay?”
Her teasing smirk makes my cheeks heat. Thank fuck for my mask right now. Rather than give in, I grunt. Her smile falters as she drops the plate and mug on my desk. As she starts to turn, I remember Tate’s words.