Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Nervous energy coursed through my body. My foot tapped repetitively, and my fingers drummed my thigh. I glanced at Lars, his eyes focused on the road, lips moving to the lyrics blasting from the speakers. He didn’t speak a word until we got to his house.
He turned the music off, and we sat in silence, staring at the small bungalow with peeling siding and decaying wooden steps leading to a small porch with a white plastic chair by the door.
“It’s not much now, but it used to look good.” He pointed to the front door. “The door was blue, and we painted the porch yellow. My dad repainted it every year. He was a little obsessive about it. Apparently, he used the wrong paint. Two years after he died, it all went to shit. I wanted to fix it up, but by that time, money was scarce. Everything we had, she sold. I’m sure we’d lose the house if it weren’t in my name.”
“Your dad left the house to you?”
Lars cut the engine. “On the stipulation that my mom lives there as long as she wants, but she can’t sell it. The property has been in my father’s family for over two hundred years.”
Lars opened the door and got out before coming to my side. I smiled when he opened my door, offering me his hand.
I’d never asked to see his house. I’d never even talked to him about his mother; I'd let him talk at the meetings and left it at that. Dealing with addict parents was difficult at best, and I knew better than anyone how, as their children, we carried a sense of shame and dread. But after the meeting, he’d asked me to go for a drive, and we ended up here.
Lars kissed my hand and tugged me toward the little house. But as we entered the doorway, reality punched me in the face.
Roxanne Morgan was naked beside a big man with a needle sticking out of her arm.
Lars said nothing. He turned, grabbed my arm roughly, and dragged me back out.
“Lars, you okay?” I asked worriedly as I saw the tears he fought to hold back.
Seeing Lars cry was alarming. When he experienced sorrow, it was a bone-deep, chilling dread caused by despair. His tears were misery trapped in the belief that love brought no joy, no hope of happiness, and no promise for a brighter future.
As I bore witness to the tears silently falling from his golden eyes, my heart ached in ways I couldn’t understand or explain. I only knew that I never wanted to create that magnitude of strife in his life. I would be a source of solace for him, someone he could turn to in times of need. His shelter from the storm. I’d do for him what his mother couldn’t. I would love him.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. I wipe the tears from my face, shut the notebook, and walk to the door.
Cain stands there, hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot. He looks tired, but I can only see how handsome he is. I smile and move aside so he can enter.
He kisses my cheek. “You forgive him yet?”
“Shouldn’t you be more worried about whether I’ve forgiven you?”
He leans against the desk in the corner. “I’m not the one you’re mad at.”
“You’re awfully cocky.”
Cain smirks, and I swear my panties incinerate. “We both know that’s true.”
It’s always been easier with Cain. He’s better at caring. He shows kindness and love effortlessly.
It was Cain who attracted me first. The tall, tatted, motorcycle-driving bad boy had given shelter to two lost souls because he could.
Cain is a juxtaposition, hard on the outside, but one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. Maybe that’s why I’m not as hurt by him. Deep down, I understand that he did what he felt was right—made an impossible choice with the least amount of fallout. But Lars had cut me to the bone.
“Am I supposed to forget everything because of some lyrics he wrote for me?”
“No,” Cain says, shaking his head. “You’re supposed to forgive him because you love him.” His hands move to the bottom of his black sweater, and he pulls it over his head.
“What are you doing?”
Cain smirks, and my anger grows to new heights. He steps toward me and grabs my wrist.
I stare at his thenar web space and notice the word “Satan” in cursive. “Did you get Lars’ stage name tattooed on your hand?”
Cain’s chuckle is a deep rumble. He lifts his other hand, where “Tinkerbell” is etched in the same place. “Got one for you, too. Did you not notice when I had my hand wrapped around your throat?”
I didn’t.
I was so immersed in the mind-blowing sex that small details were the last thing on my mind.
Cain steps closer, and the sexual allure of his body makes my head spin all over again.