Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Quack,” she mumbles around her thumb, and I laugh, sinking my face into her neck as I walk us back to Carmichael’s car. When she spots Rebecca in the back, she nearly springs right from my arms. “Becca!” she sings, prompting Carmichael’s daughter to start jigging in her car seat. The moment I drop Rosie into her own seat, the girls’ hands join, and that’s how they’ll stay the entire journey back to The Manor while they have a little toddler chat about who the heck knows what. I secure her straps and kiss her cheek. “Get that thumb out of your mouth,” I say, and her little nose wrinkles. It’s so cute, it chokes me up.
“No.”
“Stubborn,” I counter, puckering my lips. She grins and lands a sloppy kiss on my lips. “Thank you.”
Rebecca soon steals her attention, flashing her newest doll. Rosie’s eyes widen in awe, and I reach down and pull up the bag from the car floor. Her squeal of delight pierces my eardrums, and I see Carmichael in my side vision covering his ears.
“What do you say?” I ask as she makes grabby hands, the straps of her car seat preventing her from reaching.
“Tank you, tank you.”
“Welcome, baby.” I relinquish the doll and shut the door on her hugging it fiercely. I have one foot in the car when Lauren’s mother approaches, and for reasons I may never know, I freeze, when I should undoubtedly be getting in the car before I get caught up in something ugly.
“Get in, Jesse,” Carmichael says, starting the engine.
But I’m curious. Too curious. Lauren’s mother hasn’t uttered a single word to me on any occasion since I won access to my daughter. Though her looks speak a thousand words that I’m certain I don’t want to hear.
“I suppose you’re taking her back to that whorehouse,” she says, casting an evil look Carmichael’s way.
I don’t bother defending The Manor. Telling her it’s not a whorehouse serves no purpose. “I have private space there. It’s temporary until I find an apartment. Rosie doesn’t leave my sight.”
“You’re a disgrace,” she spits, and I frown, wondering where this hostility is coming from all of a sudden. I know she thinks it, but she never speaks her mind. “What kind of father are you?”
“A father who wants to see my daughter.”
“Jesse,” Carmichael calls, leaning across the car, jerking his head for me to get in.
“I’m many things,” I say, fighting to keep my temper. “But I am not a bad father.” Rosie is my only accomplishment. The only thing I have to be proud of. I will not let this bitter woman take that away from me.
I get in the car before I subject myself to more vicious words. “Let’s go,” I say, and my uncle is quick to pull away. I rest my elbow on the window, hearing the girls in the back chattering.
“Don’t let them get to you,” Carmichael says, giving my thigh a reassuring pat. “You’re a good dad, boy.”
I strain a smile and glance back at Rosie. She’s not interested in me right now, and that’s fine. She doesn’t even know I’m here. But I’ll always be here.
* * *
My body catapults upward, and I gasp for air, drenched, the sheets sticking to me. It takes me a few panicked moments to get my bearings. I feel like I’m suffocating.
Ava.
I turn my head, noting her sprawled beautifully on her back, and I gasp, suddenly finding the air I need. My heart seems to kick start, the beats dull but consistent. “Shit,” I breathe, scrubbing my hands roughly down my cheeks and falling to my back. I let my eyes close again, feeling groggy and dozy, but my darkness is a picture show of everything I can’t handle. Faces from my past. Hurt I can’t escape.
I get up quickly and pull on some shorts, heading for the gym to run off the anxiety. I don’t build up from a jog to a sprint. That’s not going to work this morning. I need to shock my body out of these shakes, so I crank up the machine to full-whack and flick on the TV, watching the sport updates coming in. My legs work like pistons, and I zone out, clearing my head, working my heart rate up to a dangerous level.
Ten miles.
I reach down and smack the plus button, running on, and ten minutes later, I can’t feel my legs, but my lungs are ready to explode from the strain. All I can focus on is catching a breath. It’s where I need to be.
I keep going, my tormented mind draining, my thoughts dispersing, until all I can think about is how fucking beat I am. I hit the decrease button and rest my hands on the bars, my head dropping as I watch beads of sweat hit the treadmill. I slow to a stop, grab a towel and wipe my forehead, looking over my shoulder to the glass doors.