Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
“I didn’t want to upset you.” She can’t even look at me.
“Upset me?” This isn’t me being upset. This is me being on the edge of something really fucking dangerous. I am so far out of control, I’m scared. More scared than I ever have been, because everything I dreaded is happening. All because of me and my fuck-ups, she could have been hurt. Or worse.
“Okay,” Ava retorts, braving facing me. I hate to think what must be staring back at her. I can hardly see through the red mist. “I didn’t want to piss you off. It was a chance meeting.”
A chance meeting that she didn’t think was important after she was fucking drugged? And not only that, clearly more was said than a polite hello. What shit was he spilling about me this time? “But you had a few minutes’ conversation. What did you talk about?”
“He apologized.”
“And that took a few minutes?” Why the fuck am I so focused on Matt? A regrettable ex is the least of my worries. A scorned husband of an ex-fuck is where my focus should be. “I told you not to see him again.”
She looks insulted. Rightly so, I realize there’s nothing in it for her, but if I don’t focus on Matt, I’ll have to focus on Van Der Haus, and that shit’s gonna be messy. “Jesse, I didn’t plan on it. I told you, it was only by chance. I wanted to know how he knows about you.”
Knows about me? “Do you care?”
“No, I don’t.”
Calm. Please, give me calm. “Then leave it.” I need to get the fuck away from her before she sees the need in my eyes. Not need for her. Not even need for vengeance.
I need a fucking drink.
I need to escape this new nightmare. Shower. Cold water on me. Anything to shock me out of this spiral. “I’m going for a shower.” I climb the stairs, eyes on my feet, and pass her static, sitting form.
I flip on the spray, wrestle my way out of my running clothes and step into the cold rain, looking up at the ceiling, willing the madness to retreat.
Drink. Drink. Drink.
Numb.
“Will you please just rant at me and have it over with?” Ava says from past the glass.
I can’t rant. Dare not. Every scrap of anger inside me is being reserved. I let the freezing water keep my mind clear before getting out and drying. She’s sitting by the sink. But I can’t look at her, so I leave the bathroom and go to our dressing room, pulling on some jeans and a T-shirt absentmindedly.
“Jesse?”
I pass her standing in the middle of the bedroom, her fingers twiddling, and go to brush my teeth. I can taste vodka now. Crave it. I look past me in the mirror and see her looking lost and uncertain. The emotions inside me are winning. I’m about to blurt out my whole horrid history, give her all of my sins, tell her why Van Der Haus is so hung up on me and Ava. It’ll be the end if I do that. She isn’t prepared or equipped to take it.
Drink.
She begs me to talk.
I can’t.
I wash my face, needing another shock of cold on my skin. A few deep breaths. A small shake of my head to try and keep the impending flashback at bay. My hands clench. I breathe in deeply.
* * *
She produces a bottle of vodka from her bag. Unscrews the cap. Takes a glug. My face remains impassive, but when she holds it out, I find some strength to take it and sit up. And I down half, forcing myself not to gag. The burn in my throat is welcome. It’s something else to focus on. Something other than my unrelenting pain. I don’t hand the bottle back. I work my way through it under Lauren’s watchful eyes until it’s empty, before slumping back to my mattress and closing my eyes.
* * *
I lose my breath for a moment. Leave. Get out of here. As I pass Ava, she comes after me, panicking. I’m panicking too. “Where are you going?”
I stop dead in my tracks, swallowing, my skin clammy. I need to reassure her. Give her some comfort. I look back. Hate the distress on her face. “I need to sort some things out at The Manor.”
“I thought we were doing something this evening,” she says, the edge of desperation in her words sharp.
“Something came up.”
“You’re mad with me,” she blurts.
My voice is suddenly gone, so I can only shake my head. I know it’s not convincing. I’m mad with her, yes. I’m mad with the world, with everything, but I’m mostly mad with myself, and the need to be punished is unshakeable.
And that need becomes even worse as I take the stairs fast, hearing her crying.