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 look back when I get to the door, my hand on the handle, my heart in my throat.
I did that to her.
And I must pay for it.
Problem is, if I have a drink, it’ll be Ava paying for it.
46
I remember nothing of the journey to The Manor. I’m too lost in memories and regret. I walk into the busy foyer and see John first. I shy away from his questioning face, passing him and going to the bar. I get three offers from various female members before I make it there.
“Mr. Ward?” Mario asks, as he polishes a glass, my eyes fixed on the top shelf.
John’s massive hand appears on the bar next to mine, his mobile placed down more calmly than I know he’s feeling. I leave and go to my office. I slam the door and walk to the drinks cabinet. Pick up a bottle. Roar at it and slam it down.
Never again.
I walk circles, heave, hit anything that I pass, my heart beating a mile a minute. I sit down. Get up. Pick up the vodka. Stare at it. Set it down. Walk some more.
For over an hour, I go round in circles. Walk. Sit. Stand.
And repeat.
My eyes are constantly being pulled toward the relief. I fight it. With everything I have, I fight it.
Until I can fight it no more.
I pick up the bottle and stare at the clear poison inside. Escape. I start to unscrew the bottle, sniffing, blinking back the sting in my eyes.
Drink.
Don’t drink.
Drink.
Don’t drink.
I languidly look over my shoulder when the door opens, finding Sarah dressed to the nines in leather, her whip limp, her face maddeningly interested.
Punishment.
Punishment.
Punishment.
Pay for your wrongs and hope that somehow I’m offered a little mercy, some strength to get through this. I set the bottle down, swallow, and pull my T-shirt up over my head, dropping to my knees. I hear her inhale. Sense the thrill.
Fucking punish me!
Hit me until I can’t take any more.
I look at her. She’s caught in a trance, but I see the exhilaration she’s trying to hide. I know she won’t like seeing me like this. But I also know that her sick mind has wanted to do this to me since the day I killed our daughters. This could be the closure Sarah needs. I can’t consider that I’m succumbing to her. I’m actually succumbing to the booze.
“No,” John gasps, bursting into my office. He finds me on the floor. “Get up, motherfucker,” he seethes, coming to me and manhandling me to my feet. “Put your fucking shirt on and go back to your girl.”
I flip, losing all reason, finding strength in my chaos, anger fueling me. I wrestle him off me, shoving his big body away. “Get the fuck out,” I order.
“No.”
“Get out!” I bellow.
John finds Sarah, yanking off his glasses and pointing them at her. “If you truly love him, you won’t do this.”
She remains silent as John looks between us, and I look at Sarah, my eyes demanding her to whip me until I bleed. She might love me, but she definitely needs this more.
“You’re both as fucked up as each other,” John growls. “I’m fucking done with you.” He leaves, slamming the door with force behind him, and I drop to my knees, drop my head, and close my eyes. I hear her breathing become heavier. I hear her walk around the back of me. I smell her desire.
I close my eyes and watch as every person I’ve ever loved parades through my memory.
“Happy birthday for tomorrow,” Sarah purrs.
Crack.
I grunt, my spine snapping violently. “Again,” I order, rolling my shoulder blades, straightening, the biting sting very fucking real.
Crack.
“Again,” I say.
Crack.
“Again.”
Crack.
“Again!” I roar.
And then—
Numb.
I’m numb, the pain of my memories, my sins, superseding the pain caused by the whip. There’s no stinging or stabbing anymore as the leather connects with my back. The only pain I feel is in my heart. It’s the crippling agony of failure—failure to protect the only thing left in my life that means something to me. Drink would’ve numbed this torture. But it also would have caused more pain . . . more failure. More reasons to drive the only beautiful thing in my life away.
But, I realize now, I don’t need alcohol to drive her away.
Even stone-cold sober I’m poisonous.
A failure.
I could smell the ignorance and escape that bottle of vodka would provide, but I could also smell the remorse that would follow.
Punish myself.
That’s my only option. And here on my knees, I can pray too. And yet I know this won’t make me miraculously worthy of her love.
Crack.
Because I’m wired to always fuck up everything good that comes into my life.
Crack.
Maybe this is my penance—God giving me a brief perception of how my life could be, knowing I’ll screw it up.