Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“Krisjen!” I hear Trace call out.
But it’s time for me to go home. No idea if I’ll be back tomorrow. I probably just lost my job.
I pat my pockets for my car key, but then I sigh when I remember that Iron still has it.
I walk for the Jaeger garage, seeing Macon’s still there with the blonde. Her back is against the wall, her hands climbing his chest as he leans on his forearm and bows his head toward her.
I squat down to pick up my clothes and shoes, watching him sway to the right and stepping out to stop himself.
I rise back up. She whispers in his ear and then slips out from under his arm, running for the kitchen door and throwing him a smile.
I stuff my socks in the boots and fold the jacket over my arm. Water drips from everything.
Macon turns, locking eyes with me, and I feel something in my stomach flip.
He grabs the bottle of Jim Beam from the edge of the car he’s working on, and I start to walk for the kitchen. I need to get my key.
But I turn to Macon, speaking softly. “You should get rid of that girl.”
“Don’t speak.”
He doesn’t even look at me.
I don’t know why I care. I’ve never seen him go to bed with anyone. Maybe he should.
I climb the three steps to the door. “You’re wasted,” I blurt out, turning the handle. “You’re not going to make any decisions tonight that you’re proud of.”
And I walk inside, slamming the door before he can spit anything back.
I wish I could say that Macon’s declining mood is Iron’s fault, but I noticed it at the beginning of summer. He was drinking more, staying up late, and increasingly angry.
And when Liv left for college in August, it got worse. With Iron leaving now, I don’t know what’s going to happen.
Like I’m one to fix him or anyone else, right?
I search the house, knocking on Iron’s bedroom door. I hear a girl in the bathroom and head back downstairs, the house quiet and dark.
Entering the kitchen, I look out the other window leading to the pool deck. I spot Iron’s right leg hanging over a chaise lounge, the rest of his body sprawled out. His foot is bare, and a giant umbrella hovers over him.
Setting down my clothes, I walk outside, coming up behind him. Rounding the chair, I see he has his hands locked on top of his head, rain dotting his body and dripping over his tattoos.
He chews the corner of his mouth, but I see the tears in his red eyes that he doesn’t try to hide.
I feel my own burn. I’m scared for him.
God, I should’ve just fucking backed off. He only wanted one last night. I could’ve left. I didn’t have to yell at him.
“You’re covered,” he says, his voice gentle.
I see him staring at my clothes, and I look down at all the hand-prints I can see, still feeling the ones I can’t. “Yeah,” I say, laughing a little. “I think you sent out a group text.”
They definitely had a plan with that attack. Maybe we’ll play again when he comes home.
“I don’t want you to leave,” I tell him, gently this time.
Tomorrow morning will come no matter what we say or do, but I want him to know we all love him. I just want him to take that with him.
He sits up, swinging his other leg over the side of the pool chair. He shakes his head, and I see his shoulders shake with a silent sob.
“It hurts in here.” He touches his chest over his heart. “And it’s fucking hurt for weeks, and I just want to smash my head into a wall, because it feels like I’m five years old again.” He breathes hard and shallow. “When I would cry at school because I missed my mom and just wanted to go home to her.”
I used to do that, too. When your body is forced to be somewhere your heart isn’t, it’s a constant feeling of homesickness.
“I hate that feeling,” he whispers. “I don’t want to go there.” And then he looks up at me. “Macon’s right. Why don’t I listen?”
Yeah, Macon doesn’t know everything, either. And neither do I.
It’s three and a half years. Not life. Iron will be back.
I step up to him, threading my fingers through his hair, and feel his shoulders slowly relax. His forehead falls against my stomach.
I don’t want my key anymore.
“I didn’t want sex,” he says, his breath warm on my skin. “I wanted a woman who gives a shit about me to look at me tonight.”
He inhales and exhales several times, and I know he’s trying not to lose control of his emotions.
I stroke his scalp, dragging my nails gently as his breath grows hot. “You mean a friend?” I ask.