Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
He throws the pack of pills on the couch. “It had nothing to do with me not wanting it.” His voice is starting to rise again, his temper flaring. “I was worried about you! Fuck, Beau! What is it?” I look up at him, my mind not helping me. Not telling me how to explain. “You don’t want a baby anymore? You don’t want me? Do you want to be a cop again? Oliver Burrow’s fiancée again?” Another swig of vodka, his hand shaking violently as he takes it to his mouth.
“You can win,” I say over a sob. “You can.”
“It’s bullshit!” he roars. “Don’t tell me I can win when you won’t fucking let me.” This time, he throws the bottle, and I jump on a cry of shock as glass pours down like rain, the building tears starting to fall as James’s body vibrates, rolls, burns before my eyes.
“James,” I choke, getting up to go to him.
“No.” His hand comes up, halting my advance, and he looks at me. It’s a look I’ll never forget. One of contempt. Pain. Hopelessness. “I’m not okay,” he says on a whisper, swiping another bottle off the cabinet and leaving.
The door slams, and my eyes explode with tears, my ass hitting the couch, my face hiding in my hands.
Please don’t leave me. Please still love me. Want to keep me.
“Please,” I sob. “Please, please, please.”
Don’t tell me I can win when you won’t fucking let me.
I cry. I cry so fucking hard, my sobs ragged and broken.
Tattered.
Like my heart.
31
JAMES
This is exactly why I don’t drink in fucking excess. My body won’t cooperate, and my mind? It’s unbearably clear. Not nearly as foggy as I need it to be. I focus hard on placing my hand on the polished gold rail and then one foot in front of the other as I climb the stairs, having a break for a swig every five steps or so. I don’t know how long it takes me to get to the top. Maybe half a bottle.
I hear the front door open and turn very slowly and carefully to look down the stairs. Fury and Tank enter, both suited. Danny comes from the kitchen and looks up the stairs to me. I’m sure I see his head shake in disapproval. He can go fuck himself.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking between them.
“Reporting for duty,” Tank says sardonically.
“No. You need time off and, with respect, I need men with their heads in the game.”
The twins cast looks at each other, both unsure. It’s Fury who speaks up. “Our heads are perfectly in the game, Danny, I assure you. And, with respect, now’s not the time for you to be down two men.”
My eyebrows rise, though slowly. Alcohol. Fury’s right, but I can’t seem to make my mouth work to tell Danny to listen to him. Good. The alcohol is finally going to my head.
Beau comes from the corridor that leads to Danny’s office, her eyes puffy, and spots the boys, and Fury is immediately on her, questioning. “I’m fine,” she assures him, offering comfort when she needs it herself, reaching over his huge shoulders and hugging him.
I turn and go to our room, swigging as I go. I can’t look at her. Can’t bear to hear her pathetic excuses, whatever they may be. It’s bad enough she disappeared for twenty-four hours straight because she needed space. To tell me she wants a baby and then do something that pretty much guarantees she won’t have one? I don’t get it. Waiting to see if she comes on her period was torturous. Was she going to leave me to go through that each month? The worry, the disappointment. Wondering how she’d take it. How she’d react? Bracing myself for the backlash. Feeling so fucking helpless. Worried.
I snort, disgusted, and push into our room, slamming the vodka down and dropping to the bed, peeling my wetsuit off and tossing it in the corner. I reclaim my alcohol and take myself outside, laying on a lounger and staring at the sky.
She doesn’t want a baby. Fine. She’s proven today she’s definitely not ready for it. Irresponsible. Reckless.
More vodka.
The clouds begin to travel faster through the sky. They circle, roll, tumble. “Fucking hell.” I grunt and struggle up, blinking back the spin as I stagger to the bathroom, my body telling me it’s had enough—to stop pouring alcohol into it at a stupid rate. My head, however, is still too lucid.
I sup back more liquid, feeling my way across the wall. My body will have to soak it up.
I feel so betrayed.
Really? Because I’m certain you had a fleeting thought to get her pregnant and trap her.
I stop in my tracks and look around, confused. “What?”
Yes. To make it impossible for her to go off around town playing Lara Croft with her ex-fiancé.