Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“What? It’s a fair question. I’m not sure how I feel about my daughter being thrown into the arms of that iceman.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I say, trying to keep a smile on my face even if, deep inside, a drum is beating, howling, screaming, but that’s nothing new. It always is. It started in the war and never stopped. I try not to let it show and try not to feel it.
Vanessa cracks, rolling her eyes. “Okay, fine. Yes, you’re right. That was petty, but… but… you should’ve told me.”
She would’ve wanted an itinerary several weeks in advance, with minute-by-minute breakdowns of where we’d be and at what times. She’s finding it difficult to accept that Emma is getting older, her control waning.
“I’ll give you more notice next time,” I tell her. “Just try not to panic over nothing so much.”
As soon as I say the second part, I know I’ve made a mistake. She leans close to the camera, an eyebrow shooting straight up. Panic is one of her trigger words. I’ve started countless arguments with it.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly say. “I know you hate that word.”
“Don’t make me out to be some crazy lady, please.”
“I honestly wasn’t thinking,” I tell her.
“Well, think next time.”
I suppress the countless replies I could throw in her direction, all the vicious things I could say if I had the motivation to, if I felt like being cruel for the sake of it. But all of that is long, long behind us.
I just smile. “I’ll think next time. Don’t worry.”
“How are things, anyway?” Vanessa says. “Are you doing okay at work?”
This time, it’s more of a smirk than a smile. “You don’t have to make small talk.”
She always looked down on me for leaving the military and becoming an accountant. Many people did. Not Jacob, never him, but I could see it in people’s eyes. Most wives would be relieved, I’d thought, but not Vanessa. Sometimes, she looked at me like she wished I’d die over there. It was—it is—messed up and one reason we’re no longer together. Hell, I never wanted Emma to grow up without a solid parental unit. However, when the choice was between tearing each other apart or splitting with some small kindness left, I chose the latter. I hope and pray I made the right choice.
“I guess we’ll say goodbye, then,” Vanessa says.
“How’s Xavier?”
She frowns. “Don’t start that.”
“Start what?”
“I’ve told you I’d prefer if you didn’t ask about my husband.”
“God forbid I’m curious about my daughter’s stepfather.”
She rolls her eyes. “Are you done?”
I turn off the video call before we get into a fight. Pacing to the window, I look at the snowy landscape, thinking of the monsters out there. They’re going to try to hurt my baby and me, but I’d never let that happen. If they come for us, Jacob and I will fight like we have before.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACOB
Isit on the porch, looking out at the darkness, thinking of the party and that Emma is sleeping just feet behind me, along with her dad. Dammit. Emma hit a sore point earlier when she talked about me trying to get myself killed. I’ve been on a warpath ever since all the goodness in me collapsed to pure self-loathing, and hatred took its place.
Hatred for the friend I was supposed to be loyal to, but I clearly didn’t give a damn, and I still don’t. It’s not even just her perfect body. Her lust. Her sensuality. I’d just like to lie with her, hold her close as the blizzard warred outside, and kiss her as softly as a man like me is capable of. It would probably get steamy, but it wouldn’t have to. I just want to touch her.
I shift at a sound in the darkness. A lot comes into a man when he takes up my line of work. I’m alert to everything, all the time, hyperaware in a way most people would find insufferable. Yet, for me, it’s comforting, even if some folks might call it paranoia.
Raising my flashlight, a dog suddenly freezes, turning to me. It has its snout around the bottom of the trashcan, sniffing. It’s on the skinnier side, clearly a stray, a hopeless look in its eyes. It’s difficult to tell the breed, a mongrel of some sort, with long, wiry hair all over its body. The snow has melted into it, giving it a black-silver color.
It turns and ducks its head. I see he’s a boy.
“Good boy,” I call out, my tone calm. “Good, good boy.”
He turns back to me, ears and tail pricked. It’s like he can’t believe somebody is calling him a good boy and has been waiting a long time to hear it. I slowly stand, walk into the snow, lower myself, and kneel there. He’s paranoid, just like me, wondering about everything that could go wrong. Slowly, he creeps toward me, sniffing the ground, always ready to run back.