Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
I pull in and stop sharply, sliding out and taking the pump, hissing when I try to squeeze the lever. “Fucking hell.” I’m forced to switch hands, and as soon as the fuel starts flowing, I lean back against the car and close my eyes, breathing deeply. Fucked up is right. Stalling going to The Manor would be the wisest thing I could do. Buy myself time to talk myself out of seeking the solace I need.
Don’t drink, brother.
I laugh under my breath. “So you’re back, huh? Glad you’ve got something useful to say to me this time.”
Do you miss me?
“Don’t ask stupid fucking questions, Jake.”
You saw Rosie today.
“That’s not useful.”
You’re thinking of asking this woman to marry you, and you don’t think you ought to tell her about your daughter? Your brother? She’ll understand.
“It’s not just telling her about you and Rosie, though, is it? It’s about everything that comes with that, all stuff, Jake, I’m not all too fond of sharing.”
It wasn’t your fault.
“Yeah, it was,” I whisper, swallowing. “It’s all my fault, Jake. You, Rosie, Sarah, Carmichael, Lauren. I just have a knack for fucking up the good things, don’t I? And now I’m fucking up me and Ava.”
So you’re just going to pretend I never existed?
I flinch, and the pump starts clicking behind me. I open my eyes. Look around me. A woman filling a Fiat 500 across the forecourt is looking at me warily. Fucking hell. I pull the pump free and jiggle it before hooking it back in the holder, then walk across the forecourt to the kiosk, smiling mildly at the woman as I pass. She quickly looks away. “Number five,” I say, grabbing some gum from the stand on the counter. “And these.” I open the pack and slip one into my mouth as I slide my card into the reader and tap in my PIN.
“Receipt?”
“No, thanks.” I leave, not bothering to smile at the woman this time, and as I’m lowering into my seat, something across the main road catches my eye, making me hold the top of my car door and pull myself up again. I frown, squint, trying to zoom in. Blond hair. A slight frame. Women with those credentials are ten a penny, but . . .
I slowly shut my door, my feet carrying me to the side of the road. I’m on autopilot. My eyes fixed. My heart thrumming. I really am going fucking crazy. I go to step into the road and get yelled at, and I jump back, just as a van sails past, his horn screaming. “Fuck.”
“Hey, mister, are you okay?”
I blink, looking at the teenager beside me on a pushbike. Then across the road again. She’s still there. Watching. I check both ways, searching for a gap in the traffic to cross. I can make it after the coming bus if I run.
But when the bus passes, she’s gone.
26
I walk into the bar, stop, look at the top shelf past Mario, breathe in, turn, and walk out.
“Are you okay, Mr. Ward?” Pete asks, turning as I pass him, his tray balancing on his palm.
Clearly, I don’t look it. “Fine, Pete.” Terrible, Pete. I trudge through the foyer, looking up the stairs when I see someone descending them.
Drew. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” Awful. I enter the summer room, frowning at the semi-cleared space, my mind taking its time to catch up. The party tomorrow. Eyes fall on me from various members sitting on various couches, their conversations tapering off as they watch me stalk through.
John’s in the corner, wrestling with a tangle of wires and cables. “All good?”
“Amazing.” Horrific. I make it to the corridor, and Sarah emerges from the entrance that leads to the spa. I’m momentarily bewildered by the height of her heels, wondering how the fuck she walks on them, especially on the tile floor of the spa.
She slows to a stop, her eyes following me as I pass. “Everything all right?”
“Never better.” Never worse. Although, painfully, I know that’s not true. It can get so much worse.
I take the doorknob and curse when a wave of pain shoots through my hand, inhaling a hissed breath as I shake it and use my other hand to let myself into my office. I slam the door. Lean against it. Let the back of my head hit the wood a few times. My eyes fall to the still well-stocked cabinet, casting across the various bottles. I push away from the door with my shoulder blades and walk slowly over, eyes fixed on an unopened bottle of vodka. I stop. Stare at it for a while, then slowly reach out and take it in my grasp, lifting and lowering it, like a dumbbell, getting accustomed to the foreign object in my hold. It’s been awhile. But it doesn’t take much getting used to. The only difference is the biting pain in my fist.