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)
“Jesse,” she says, but her voice is different.
It’s not Ava. I jolt, ripping my mouth from hers, blinking, trying to find some sense amid the madness, and when I finally focus, I don’t see Ava. I don’t see the woman who’s saving me.
I see the woman who nearly ended me.
“Lauren?” I murmur, bewildered, trying to scramble away. Get away before she tries to kill me again. What is she doing here? How did she find me? She should be locked up. She shouldn’t be able to get to me.
“You don’t get a happy ever after,” she says, almost smiling. Taunting. “Not for what you did to your brother. To your uncle. To Sarah. To me. To our daughter. Don’t you see, Jesse? You’ve killed or ruined everyone who’s ever loved you. You don’t deserve peace. And you will never have it.”
* * *
I jerk, my head flying back with such force, my skull cracks on the tile behind me. The pain is nothing. I gulp down air endlessly, my eyes darting around the shower stall, trying to gather my bearings. “No,” I breathe, smacking the ball of my hand into my temple repeatedly, my other hand instinctively and protectively lying across my scar. My knees come up, my head goes down, and I fight to keep my breathing in check. To breathe at all. You don’t deserve peace. And you will never have it.
Fear and despondency rip through me unmercifully, my face screwing up, my eyes clenched shut. And then I hear something.
I look up, without the energy to even consider appearing okay.
There she is. My torment. My peace.
With a knowing, sympathetic smile, she joins me on the shower floor, not bothering to undress, straddling my thighs, wrapping me up in her safe, warm arms. Comforting me. “I love you,” I whisper into her neck, feeling completely beaten, despite having her close again.
“I know.” Her words are a sigh. Not tired. Not exasperated. More concerned. “How many laps did you do?”
“Three.” Or was it four? I don’t recall. I just ran.
“That’s too much.”
“I freaked out when you weren’t here,” I admit, way past putting on any form of front. She heard me on the phone. Feels my subsiding shakes now.
“I kind of got that.”
I pinch her lightly on her hip. “You should have told me.” I pout to myself. A fair warning, a mention, anything to give me some kind of heads-up that she wouldn’t be here when I got home. Then perhaps I wouldn’t currently be a useless mess of a man on the shower floor. Perhaps.
“I was always coming back. I can’t be joined at your hip.”
“I wish you bloody could,” I say, snuggling deeper into her. My nostrils are suddenly burning, and I frown. “You’ve had a drink.” I don’t mean to sound so accusing. My issue with Ava drinking isn’t the issue of my burning nostrils now. It has nothing to do with catching a whiff of my nemesis and feeling tempted. My issue is her safety. And perhaps the fact that people make stupid choices when they’re under the influence.
“Have you eaten?” she blurts, tense. Avoiding my statement.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat, Jesse. I’ll make you something.”
I couldn’t stand if I wanted to. Every muscle has seized up. I’m far from my strongest right now. Haven’t been since Ava walked into my office all those weeks ago. And yet in other ways I am. Strong enough to not drink. If she’s here. I exhale wearily. That strength will vanish if Ava vanishes. It’s a very real, very unhealthy problem. For both of us. “Soon, I’m comfy.”
She doesn’t argue for once, and I’m grateful. I need to stock up on a bit of energy and valor before she hits me with more challenges, and it’s surprisingly nice being sopping wet and having a dead arse, so long as she’s on me. Near me. Touching me. I sink my face deeper into her neck, ignoring the smell of wine. See how calm we are? How much peace is shrouding us? Don’t tell me this isn’t the cure for all things. I wouldn’t believe you.
“I hate this song,” Ava murmurs, and my bottom lip juts out a little.
That’s a shame. “I love it.” I want her to love it too. “Reminds me of you.”
“It reminds me of a man I don’t like.”
Her straight-up counter has me clenching my eyes closed. “I’m sorry.” What could I ever do to make it up to her? I nibble my lip, thinking. The answer is easy, and we both know it. I lick the column of her throat, and I feel her body flex on top of mine. I could move if . . . “My arse is dead.”
“I’m comfy,” she says, smiling against my cheek, and I smile with her, giving her a little dig in her tickle spot. “Stop.” She wriggles and worms, laughing, and it’s like rocket fuel to my dick. “I need to feed you.”