Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Or what about the fact I looked up to him? Admired him? Smiled with pride when he called me a chip off the old block? Maybe I am like him. Maybe I’ve got…” He pauses a moment, bangs his fist to his chest, and his voice is absolutely tortured. “Maybe I’ve got the same sickness in me?”
“God, no,” I say with a sympathetic whine. “Absolutely not. I know you, Van, and you—”
“You don’t know shit about me,” he growls.
“I fucking know everything about you,” I yell at him, and he blinks in surprise. I take a step to him, put my hand on his chest…right over his heart. “If I didn’t know it ten minutes ago, I sure as fuck know it now. You are a man tortured by your father’s sins, and the mere fact you’re so tortured tells me all I need to know about you.”
Van’s eyes seem to flicker, die, and then pop back to life. Maybe with hope? I don’t know, but I’m not stopping.
I step into him, my arms once again going back around his waist. He doesn’t reciprocate so I snarl at him, “You better hold me, you motherfucker.”
His arms immediately come up and around me. He squeezes tight and I snuggle hard into him. With relief, I hear him let out a sigh of capitulation, possibly relief, and then we just stand there holding each other.
“I know you, Van Turner,” I whisper to him. “And I think you’re mighty fine.”
Chapter 19
Van
I don’t think I can do this.
Even as I hold tight to Simone, every moral cell in my body is screaming at me to cut ties and run. She doesn’t deserve this weight I carry around. As she holds me now and I realize that her heart is indeed involved, she sure as fuck doesn’t deserve to fall for someone like me.
“Simone,” I say gently as I bring a hand up to the back of her head. I curl my fingers around her neck and give her a gentle squeeze.
She looks up at me with fierce eyes. “Don’t you even think about telling me I deserve better, or that you don’t have anything to give me. At the very least, you better sure as fuck keep giving me what you’ve been giving me, and if I had my way, you’d talk to me and tell me everything.”
I blink at her, mesmerized by her determination. She continues. “So you have two choices. You either take me back into your bedroom and fuck the hell out of me, and we’ll both push this under the rug. Or you sit your ass on that couch and you tell me all of it. Every last nasty detail, and then you let me keep your secret.”
“I’m not surprised,” I mutter.
“By what?” she asks with her head tilted.
“That you won’t take no for an answer,” I say with a sigh. “You’re relentless.”
“And shiny,” she says with a perky smile.
“And shiny,” I admit with defeat. “Go grab two beers out of the fridge and you’ll hear it all.”
She doesn’t hesitate, releasing her hold on me and trotting into the kitchen. When she comes back, I already have taken a seat on one end of the couch. To my relief, after handing me my beer, she sits on the opposite end. I kick my legs out but turn slightly to face her. She draws her legs up under her and pops the top to her beer.
“How much of that stuff did you read?” I ask her.
“I got the gist of what your father did,” she says quietly. “And that he’s in prison in Virginia and dying.”
I nod, popping my own beer open. I take a long swallow, mostly to wet my throat, which has become dry as dirt. “I was eight when he was tried and convicted. It was in the summer, and my mom made me attend the trial with her. She was convinced he was innocent and wanted to show our support.”
“That’s awful,” she murmurs.
“I agree,” I tell her. “You don’t even want to know the nightmares I had for years after that.”
“Did you…um…ever talk to someone about it?”
“You mean like a psychologist or something?” I ask, and she nods. “Yes. For a few years when I was younger. Again when I hit my teens. It helped.”
“And your mom? Is that Etta Turner?” she asks.
I shake my head, smiling slightly at just the mention of Etta’s name. “She’s my aunt. My mom killed herself three days after my dad was convicted. I came home from school one day and she was just lying in bed…thought she was sleeping. It was a prescription drug overdose.”
“Oh, Van,” Simone says with such heartfelt sympathy it makes my nose sting from the care within her tone.
I wave her off. “I don’t miss her. I’ve come to grips that she was wrong to expose me to that, but honestly, it afforded me a life with Etta.”