Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Did you really just kill someone?”
He smirks.
“Of course I did, usually that’s my men’s job, but I had to blow off some steam like the old days. Who the fuck did you think you were marrying?” I stand there, unable to say a word. “Goodnight, wife.”
He shuts the door behind me.
And I’m left standing at our wedding, in my wedding dress, all alone.
Emma comes over as planned, and then she comes the next day as well, until she has to go back to work. I, on the other hand, have taken the week off. That, as it stands, was probably a mistake. I should have gone straight back to work, instead of living this life. His life, in his house.
What kind of life is this going to be? Not one I chose, that’s for sure, at least I still have my business.
My week consists of me hanging around the house watching Netflix and ordering as much bad takeaway as I can fit in my stomach.
Not once do I see or hear from him.
The weeks start to fall away fast once I return to work.
It’s been close to a month now since I’ve seen Whiskey, since we’ve been married, and I’m glad it’s going fast, but it’s a lonely existence. I hate this house and being stuck in it.
When my father pops around for unexpected visits, which he’s done twice, I lie telling him Whiskey’s at work, when in reality I have no idea where he is.
Today though, today’s a good day.
We have a band booked, and recently they hit number one worldwide.
“I would offer to buy you a drink…” I turn to the lead drummer of one of America’s biggest bands. Shane’s hair is long, his lip pierced, and in his mouth hangs a cigarette. Not lit.
“Sorry?” I say confused.
He isn’t talking to me, is he?
“You’re beautiful, and I want to take you out. Where should we go?” he asks me. The rest of the band members look my way, and my face reddens.
“I’m married,” I say, spitting it out and hating myself for it.
“But…are you?” Shane steps closer, smelling like cigarettes and bad regrets.
I want him.
Why do I want him?
Is it because I am craving a touch from someone else?
Shane is at the end of the bar, nothing’s separating us. Only a glass which I’m holding in my hand.
His band members start to leave my bar, leaving just the two of us here by ourselves. Shane reaches for my hand, turns it over, and pulls a pen out of my pocket that I use for writing food orders. When he’s done, he blows on it and steps back.
“Call me when you think you aren’t married. But believe me, I have no qualms about sleeping with a married woman.” Shane winks and walks out.
My heart beats loudly in my chest as he goes, and I have to remember to breathe.
The last man I was attracted to is now my husband.
Now, I’m way wary of who to let in. Could they fuck me over as well?
Maybe record me to?
I hate Whiskey for putting those insecurities inside of me. I never had them before him and his bullshit.
After closing up, I head home, constantly looking at my hand. I shouldn’t do it. I know it would be wrong. I’m a married woman, and I’m not a cheater. I have strong beliefs in that. But is it cheating if it’s fake? The certificate might be real, but the marriage is anything but.
Pulling up to my home—technically his home—I notice his car is parked in the garage.
What on earth is he doing here?
Wondering if I should pull away and come back later or just go in, I decide to go in, because this can’t be my life avoiding the asshole. I need to face him head-on.
Gathering all my strength, I pull my jacket on and walk inside. When I do, he’s sitting at the dining room table with food, waiting for me, as if he hadn’t left.
“Whiskey.”
He turns to face me. His eyes roam me as I walk closer to him.
Pulling out a seat, I sit across from him. “Why are you here?”
“To see you, of course,” he answers.
“Why?” He pushes a plate toward me full of food.
“Can I not visit my wife?” he asks.
I watch him for motive. He’s here for something. What? I just don’t know yet. I look down at my hand, the one with Shane’s number on it. I was thinking of calling him. Maybe.
“What’s that on your hand?” Whiskey’s eyes glance down, and I pull my hand away and place it under the table.
“What do you want?”
“What’s on your hand?”
“A number,” I answer him truthfully.
“Who’s number?”
“A drummer.”
“Name?”
“Shane,” I answer.
He nods. “And do you plan to fuck him?”
Whiskey’s words for some reason shock me. “Get out.”
I get up from the table, not even bothering to go any further with this conversation.