Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I press the cloth into his skin, running my other hand over his neck and face.
And everything else in the world quiets as he leans into it. All I can see is him, and all he can see is me.
“Until someone else comes along …” I tell him.
He nods.
24
Macon
Army’s going to want her back. He’s been quiet about her sleeping in my room because he knows something’s going on with me, but he still wants her. He makes sure I see every time she lets him touch her.
I blow out a breath, bowing my head under the hot spray of the shower. The scent of the candle burning on the sink fills the bathroom, mixing with magnolias breezing in through the window above my head. An image of me racing my first motorcycle down the coast hits me, the sun shining on my face. Girls in swimsuits on the beach. A red sail far out on the water.
I forgot about that.
The scent reminds me of it, though. I’m not sure why.
That was a good day. I was seventeen, I think. Freedom.
Krisjen says she just likes firelight, but I know something that smells like eucalyptus is something people use for stress, and she’s doing it for my benefit. She burns other things that smell like spearmint and citrus, and she plays music a lot and keeps the windows open, so fresh air can travel through the house. Aromatherapy bullshit like it’s going to fix me, but …
It stirs up memories, all of them nice. At any moment, I feel twelve, sneaking out with Army and Iron to climb trees at midnight.
And the house does feel better. It breathes again. I like coming home, and even my brothers seem happier. They’re taking care of shit—Trace finally put the lawn mower away—but I don’t know if I’m happy that they’re stepping up. They’re doing it because they’re worried about me.
I don’t want them to act like I’m not strong.
I inhale the scent, drawing it in again and again, the memory of that day in the sun, next to the sea as I raced through the wind. A great summer day.
Fisting the shower handle, I brace myself, jerking it right. I hold my breath as it only takes about two seconds for the water to go from hot to cold. Forcing my neck under the spray, I let the icy water coat my back, and then I raise my head, dousing my face. I exhale, my head clearing. Jesus, that helps. I do it every shower now.
She’s smart. And yeah, I like her ridiculous candles.
I plant my hands on the wall, letting the water spill down my chest. I like her girly music, and how she sings to Dex, and the way her body looks in my sweatpants. And how her feet were curled into mine when I woke up this morning.
I look down, seeing my dick hard.
I slam my hand down on the handle, cutting off the water and grabbing my towel. Quickly drying, I dress, pulling on jeans and taking out a T-shirt. I swing it over my shoulder as I dry off my hair. Crossing the room, I stop and look at the bed, sheets crumpled and the dent of our heads still in the pillows.
I hesitate for only a moment. Walking over, I pull up the bedding, smoothing it out, and fluff the pillows. It’s not military-style, but it’s better than yesterday.
I draw in a deep breath. Okay.
Heading downstairs, I stop about halfway, looking around and listening. The house is silent.
There’s nothing.
I keep walking, checking the grandfather clock in the foyer as I pass. Ten after seven.
They’re not usually gone yet.
I step into the kitchen, seeing Krisjen pull a pan out of the oven.
The hair on my arms rises, and I’m not sure if it’s because it smells like steak, or because I’m looking at her.
She smiles at me and takes the tongs, placing a rib eye on a plate.
I pour a cup of coffee. “Where is everybody?”
She sighs. “They were rushing off when I got up,” she tells me.
“It’s supposed to rain later, so they wanted to get all the jobs done before it starts.”
They wanted to get all the jobs done …
Jesus fucking Christ. Are they all trying to make me proud or something?
She hands me the plate, and I look down at it, replying, “I’m not …”
But then I stop, shutting my mouth. Staring at the meat and the juices pooling around it, I force myself to let go. To follow her lead.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She says nothing, simply turning back to the dishes, and I take my food to the table, sitting down as she sets a knife and fork next to the plate.
I stick the steak with my fork, my stomach grumbling at the feel of how tender the meat is. My mouth waters.