Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
“The same thing you probably do every day with mine.”
I hear Callie gasp.
Reed growls.
And I finally jump out from behind Ledger’s back. “He’s kidding.”
Not a moment too soon, because Callie is grasping my brother’s arm, probably trying to stop him from going after Ledger. Who’s standing with his feet apart, his fingers fisted at his sides as if prepared to do battle with Reed.
But I know — I can feel it — that this is one battle that Ledger has every intention of losing.
“He’s kidding,” I repeat, hoping that my flushed cheeks and my tangled hair don’t give me away. “He wasn’t doing… anything with me.”
Finally Reed deigns to look at me. “Why was he standing so close to you?”
“Because he was helping me with the dishes.”
Reed glances over to the sink for a second before coming back to Ledger once again. With his ticking jaw, he goes, “Was he now.”
Before Ledger can say anything, I reply, “Yes, he was. He really was. So can you stop glaring at him?”
He doesn’t.
In fact he adds, jerking his chin up, “I want to hear it from him.”
At which point, Callie goes, “Roman, I think —”
“You’re going to let your sister talk for you,” my brother cuts his wife off and taunts Ledger.
I can feel the heat, his anger that I know will soon reach a point where it changes the very air around us, radiating out of him. “I don’t know, you tell me. You gonna let your wife hold you back from coming at me?”
Reed seethes, absolutely fucking seethes with fury, and takes a step forward, distressing Callie, and I’ve just had it with the both of them.
“Stop it, okay?” I say sternly, stepping forward on my own. “Both of you. What’s wrong with you guys? You’re acting like you’re still in high school. Which was years ago, okay? Years. Why can’t you just move the fuck on? I used to think it was soccer. That stupid freaking soccer is responsible for turning you into animals.” I shake my head. “But I guess I was wrong. It’s not soccer; it can’t be. I mean, you don’t even play anymore. You have a fucking garage, Reed.” Turning to Ledger then, “And you did it, okay? You won. You went pro. You’re in the big leagues now. Everyone thinks you’re the best. Isn’t that fucking enough? Stop fighting. Please. You’re family now. Stop letting your stupid, boneheaded egos control you.”
“Exactly.” Callie adds, “There’s a baby sleeping down the hall. Your baby, Roman.” Turning to Ledger, she goes, “And your niece. Imagine how she’d feel when she grows up and sees her two favorite people fighting like kids on a playground.”
Reed’s breathing harshly and so is Ledger.
Both their chests moving up and down almost violently as they glare at each other.
God, what a bunch of Neanderthals. How can they not see that they’re both essentially the same person?
Just when I think this silent stand-off will never end, Ledger speaks. “I’m leaving.”
And gosh, I breathe out a sigh of relief.
That I think I let out too soon because when Ledger goes to grab a container of cupcakes — I’d carefully frosted and put them away in a container for Callie and Reed to enjoy later — Reed growls, “What the fuck are you doing with my sister’s cupcakes?”
With his eyes on my brother, Ledger puts his hand, his fingers splayed wide, on the top and slides the box across the island toward himself. I’m not sure if it’s apparent to the others or not, but I thought that that gesture screamed possessiveness.
“You want cupcakes,” Ledger says, his voice low and bordering on threatening, “you ask your wife to make you some. These are mine.”
Chapter Thirteen
Her Beautiful Thorn
When people ask me the second most frequently asked question — where does my anger come from — I tell them what I usually do when they ask me the most frequently asked question. Which is basically to fuck right off.
I don’t like it when people try to get personal and poke into my business.
But the truth is that I don’t think I know the answer to this question.
I don’t know where my anger comes from. I don’t sit around, looking out the fucking window, contemplating the hows and the whys of it all.
I do, however, know what it felt like when I gave in to it the first time.
It was on the school playground and I was about four or so. Our father had left us a year before and there was this fuckface in my class who wouldn’t shut up about it. Every single afternoon, he’d have something to say about me, my brothers, my baby sister who was barely two, our mom. He’d have something to say about how we must’ve done something to drive him away. How our own father didn’t love us enough to stick around.