Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“I took a couple of remedial massage classes a few years back, and although your shoulder looks relatively unlocked compared to earlier, there is still a lot of tension in the surrounding muscles.” Sparks zap through my body when she rubs her fingers over my serratus muscle, and my mind instantly goes to the gutter when she murmurs, “It is as hard as it looks.”
Within a couple of rotations, my mind has no choice but to shift to controlling my groans of pain. Her massage hurts, but I can’t remember a time when it hasn’t. My muscles were patched back together. It’s been one pain-filled day after the other ever since.
“What the fuck is that?” I ask when a crunching noise follows a handful of more rotations.
“That is just the beginning.” Henley suggests for me to breathe out my nose before she moves my shoulder to a point that causes me to stiffen. “You need to trust me, or we will never get this knot out.” The tension slackens when she murmurs, “And you’re wearing pants this time, so what’s the worst that could happen?”
I barely smirk when she uses my distraction to her advantage. A loud pop cracks from my shoulder before I let out a relieved sigh. “Now that’s done, all the toxins clogged in there can make their way out.” She grins at my shocked expression before inching back. “If you’re unwilling to let it go in other means, sometimes you have to let others force you out of your comfort zones.”
When her eyes drop to my crotch that displays how much I enjoyed having her hands on me, I yank over a pillow to cover the bulge. “That—”
“Is a perfectly natural response for a man as wound up as you.” The hairs on my neck prickle to attention when she presses her lips to the shell of my ear. “So you should consider yourself lucky that I refuse to take advantage.”
When my glassy eyes bounce between hers, confused, she nudges her head to the coffee table, which is housing an almost empty bottle of scotch.
Confident I understand her objective, she inches back, stands, then moseys toward the exit. I watch her stalk, my eyes only leaving her ass when she slings her head back and says, “If you have to go outside tonight, don’t use the flashlight in the kitchen drawer. I wasn’t lying when I said my V ran out of charge, and the flashlight batteries were the only ones I could find.”
4
BRODIE
The following morning, as I enter the bathroom from my bedroom, hungover and with a dry mouth, I catch sight of my reflection in the vanity mirror. I grimace at the dark circles rimming my eyes before groaning about the flab circling my midsection.
Not that long ago, the only things I hated about my body were the nicks and scars I’d gathered during my years at the bureau. Dexter made my internal wounds visible for the world to see, and they’re more hideous than any scar I own. He reminded me that I am a mere man and that my daughter would become an orphan if I didn’t harness my wish for revenge.
Although the past eighteen months have taught me to slow down and smell the flowers, I still have a long way to go. There are perps to be caught and mass murderers to be taken down. I just need to balance parenthood with my wish to eradicate the world of scum.
After scrubbing the roadkill smell from my teeth and tongue and putting on the aftershave Lucy is adamant I wear even with a razor not touching my face in over six years, I tug open the top drawer of my bathroom cabinet. My heart beats out a funky tune when I take in the orange canister hidden at the back, but before I’m tempted to reach for it to silence my thudding skull, a sliver of silver steals my attention.
The scissors I sought last night have been returned to the drawer, and a shirt oddly similar to the one partly responsible for my hungover state is folded and resting on the vanity above it. It is one of those dad-bod-fit shirts, but it appears a little looser around the arms and midsection.
The one Henley helped me escape last night was meant to hug the favorable parts of my body while hiding less desirable assets.
I didn’t get close to what I paid for.
Once I slam the drawer shut, I toss my leftover dad-bod shirts into the donation box filled with clothing I’ve yet to work up the courage to donate before pulling on the more generously fitted shirt from the bathroom. It is as soft as a cloud and the perfect fit.
“Lucy-Lou,” I call out, walking down the hall with a newfound spring in my step.