Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
I don’t know what makes me think about the bottles under the sink. I haven’t looked at them since the day we got here, when I performed sort of a tour, checking to make sure what I requested was in place. I haven’t given them another thought until now, when I reach under the counter into the narrow space not big enough to store much of anything but a few liquor bottles. Considering I don’t drink, I’m not sure why I made it a point to have them here.
Deep down inside, I probably knew it was inevitable. There would have to come a night when I would need a drink badly. If Tatum’s either too afraid to face me, or too pissed that I dismissed her earlier when Becky was here, I’m safe. I won’t make a mistake like turning to her for forgetfulness in a drunken stupor. Yes, that’s what I want more than anything, to forget. To sink myself deep in her tight, wet heat and obliterate every other thought from my mind.
Since I can’t do that, I settle for uncapping the whiskey and pouring myself a drink – then making it a double. “Why not? I’m not driving,” I mutter to myself, snickering before I raise the glass to my lips. There’s no savoring the taste. There’s only downing it in one quick gulp. It’s the burn I savor, the way the liquor carves a flaming path through me. I stare at my bruised knuckles in the light over the stove. Maybe I have a thing for pain. Maybe I know I need to be punished. If anybody does, it’s me. Thinking I could turn my back on my failures, and that would somehow magically make them disappear. There isn’t a punishment severe enough to make up for that stupidity. That laziness.
I finish off the glass and pour another, and I don’t stop until the amber liquid nears the rim. I don’t deserve oblivion, but I crave it with every part of me as I down another mouthful, then another, gasping for breath after swallowing.
Reality comes crashing down on me just as my senses become mercifully dull. Shit. I was supposed to touch base with Callum tonight. I should’ve done that before I started tearing my way through this bottle. Before I go too fuzzy, I pull out my phone, determined to get it over with so I can go back to drowning my sorrows. My pitiful, pathetic, fucking sorrows.
He answers immediately. “What’s the good news?”
I can’t hold back a soft laugh at his hopeful greeting. Doesn’t he know by now there’s no such thing? Everything has a double edge. “We’re closer, but not as close as I wanted to be by the time I called you tonight. Almost there, though. There’s a few loose ends left to tie up.”
At first, I take his silence for disapproval. I can see him at his desk in his quiet office, with the grounds spread out beyond the window. With Jack and the rest of them now dead, I’m sure it’s peaceful there. He’s no longer wrestling with demons, so he has the bandwidth to scrutinize me.
Instead of voicing disappointment, he asks, “Are you feeling alright? You don’t sound like yourself. And this isn’t the first time I’ve had to say that.”
“Not to worry. Everything out here is under control.” There I go, lying to the man I owe my life to. I’ve repeatedly hurt his daughter, knowing he trusts me, telling myself at least I haven’t given in. At least I haven’t fucked her. Like that makes me a saint. Like that undoes the pain I’ve caused with all this back-and-forth bullshit.
“Is it that bad?”
“Is what that bad?”
“Do I need to talk to her? If she’s driving you to drink, we have problems.”
Like I didn’t already feel like a piece of shit. He’s blaming it on her. “No, really. I’m going a little stir-crazy, that’s all. And I figure there’s nothing else to do, so why not have a drink?”
“So long as she’s not pushing your buttons.”
“That’s what she does best,” I admit with a soft chuckle. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good. And she’s doing well?”
“She’s watching TV in her room. She’s fine.” I found Amanda’s urn on the coffee table. No, he doesn’t need to hear about that. I don’t know for sure what it means, anyway. Only that she’s been messing with it. Thinking about her worthless mother yet again.
“Good. Let her know we’re thinking about her.” He pauses again, and I can almost hear his hesitation. Asking himself whether he wants to share what’s come to mind. “Don’t tell her I told you–I want to do it myself–but she’s going to have a baby brother.”
“You’re not my brother! Get your own dad–leave mine alone!” I close my eyes, hoping to shut out the crystal-clear memory of a twelve-year-old Tatum screaming those words in my face. Shrieking them. Shaking with rage, tears rolling down her cheeks.