Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 134045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
That was a total lie. No way could I actually handle the truth if he said I was either not enough for him or that my life was too much for him, but it was a lie all women found themselves telling men at some point in their lives.
“What if I can’t handle the truth?” he murmured. “What if I can’t fucking handle the knowledge that there are two people in this world who have the power to damage me when I thought there was nothing left of me to hurt?”
It was a rhetorical question, of course. Because that’s when he kissed me on the head, picked up the duffel bag and left.
I didn’t say anything.
Didn’t tell him to stop.
Didn’t chase him.
I just collapsed.
Right there in the middle of the living room.
My knees were pressing into my chest, arms around them, hands shaking. My entire body was shaking. Tears ran in rivers down my face and I couldn’t stop them. Nor could I stop the loud pathetic sobs escaping from somewhere deep inside my chest. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to smash everything around me. I wanted mostly to chase after him and beg him to come back. But my body didn’t let me. So I just continued sobbing until long after he was gone.
Lance
His decision to leave was not easy. It was the hardest and most painful thing he’d ever done. And it was prompted, by all people, Rosie.
Not because she didn’t want him to have some kind of ending, but because she did.
He knew that on reflection.
The afternoon that had been perfect. It was carved into his memory, how unnatural such contentment felt. Knowing he was gonna go to sleep with Elena, after fucking her, after feeling her pussy contract around him, with her clinging to him like a fucking clam, whispering about nothing and everything at the same time.
He’d wake up with her.
Eat her pussy or fuck her depending on how he was feeling.
They’d get up. Listen to whatever crazy dream Nathan felt like telling them about, watch him eat whatever insane thing he’d decided would taste good.
Then they’d drive him to school, with not a fuckin’ second of silence. Nathan would request Lance hold his hand as they walked into school. He’d say yes, because there was no other option.
Then he’d drive with Elena to the job she still hadn’t quit. They’d talk. Or maybe they wouldn’t. What was certain was his hand on her thigh, feeling her warmth, her goodness.
He might grab a coffee at the diner, sit, watch her. Or get other jobs done.
A week shouldn’t have been long enough to become routine. But it had. And instead of it making him feel like crawling out of his skin, it made him feel like he finally fucking fit it.
That’s what he was feeling, like his skin fit and that the sun was nice and he couldn’t wait to fuck Elena when Rosie left.
The fence at this place sucked. The wood was rotting in places and it stained from the sun. He was replacing the pieces that needed to be replaced, painting the pieces that didn’t. Nathan had been ‘helping’ him for an impressively long time for a five-year-old while Rogue napped. He hadn’t complained. Not once. Lance didn’t think he’d ever heard the kid complain. Or pitch a fit.
He looked like he might when his mother declared it was his bath time and he had to stop helping Captain.
The name was a sock in the gut every time it came outta the kid’s mouth.
It was a name he didn’t deserve, but one he never wanted to stop hearing.
The kid didn’t pitch a fit having to go inside. Elena had given a knowing look he felt in his cock before she herded her son inside.
He watched her do so, or more specifically, he watched her ass do so until Nathan had gone inside and she followed, presumably to make sure he was actually going into the shower and not just run the water.
Then, and only then, did he turn his attention back to the fence.
It didn’t stay there for long.
“Dude, you are literally painting a picket fence white right now,” a voice said from behind him.
Rosie was the only bitch who could creep up on him like that. Fuck, she was better than most men at Greenstone. And not just at creeping up on people. All of them were man enough to admit that Rosie was more hardcore at almost everything.
Growing up in an outlaw biker club had a lot to do with it. The rest was just Rosie.
He respected Rosie. Even liked her.
Right now she was irritating the fuck out of him. Because even though she’d surprised him, he knew exactly why she was here.
Therefore he didn’t look up.
“You’re in a back yard filled with flowerpots and kid’s toys, in the ‘burbs, painting a picket fence white,” she continued, leaning on the portion of the fence that wasn’t done. “Up is down, white is black, Adam Lambert is straight,” she continued, grinning. He didn’t need to look up to know that. It was in her voice, that smile, that smugness.