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)
“No.” He pulls me back. “I got it.”
“I left my phone downstairs anyway.” I need it in case my brother or sister calls. “I’ll check on him. If he’s messy, I’m waking you up, though.”
He chuckles into the pillow. “Thank you.”
I know he’s exhausted, and I’m sure it’s as much emotional as physical. What Macon did to him last night might’ve been the most Army has ever been hurt, not counting his parents’ deaths.
I find a pair of his boxers in a drawer and pull them on, and then I grab his gray hoodie off the chair, slipping it over my head. Walking for the door, I tie my hair up into a ponytail, seeing Army roll over onto his stomach and hug one of his pillows.
I close the door behind me and tiptoe next door to Liv’s room. Cracking open the door, I see Dex standing up in a Pack ’n Play, looking at me over the top.
I reach down and pick him up. “You’re over a year old, man,” I whisper, holding him in my arms. “You should be sleeping through the night.”
But then, he’s also a Jaeger. He was born restless.
He stares up at me, and I feel his diaper, remembering what a full one feels like with Paisleigh. Not that I ever changed one.
He’s dry, though. Just wide-eyed and staring at me.
“Don’t look at me like that, or I’ll be wrapped around your finger, too.”
He gurgles some baby noises, and I start to rock him. “‘Shout, shout,’” I sing. “‘Let it all out.’”
I keep going, gently murmuring the lyrics I know, and humming the tune for the parts I don’t. His head falls to my chest as I sway back and forth, probably smelling his dad on the hoodie. I smooth his dark hair at the back of his head, my heart swelling at the feel of his little body against my chest. I smooth his dark strands through my fingers, feeling him grow heavy and surrender to sleep, but I sing the song again, holding him a bit longer.
Laying him face up, I find his pacifier and give it to him. His eyes are still open but only a little. I cover him with the blanket and rub his chest.
Leaving the room as quietly as I can, I head down the stairs, still feeling his hair, as soft as water, between my fingers.
Mothers. Even when you’re not, Macon had said.
I shake my head and enter the living room, looking for my backpack. My phone is probably dead.
Grabbing it from the pocket, I veer into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
I gaze out the window at the pitch-black night, finding yellow eyes peering back from somewhere beyond the pool, as the palm trees, dark blue in the moonlight, dance in the breeze. Snoring hits my ears, and I look up at the ceiling, legit hearing Trace all the way down here.
Whispers of a wind whirl about the house, shaking shutters, like we’re in a vortex around which storms always brew, and I close my eyes—I love it here at night the best. Everything talks. Even the floorboards.
A draft sends a lock of my hair floating in front of my face, and I feel him. Behind me.
“In the Marines …” he says, his breath on my ear.
But it’s not Army.
“We’d call you a barracks rat,” Macon tells me. “A girl who just moves from room to room to room.”
My chest caves, and I open my eyes to see him reach around me and set a bottle of Jim Beam on the counter. He grips the neck with his hand as he hovers at my back.
Drawing in a breath, I lift my gaze back out the window and take another drink of water. “In my world,” I tell him, “men call women names, too. I can’t say that I’m shocked that there’s little difference between you and Milo Price. Or you and Callum Ames. Or you and my father.”
I don’t want to piss him off, because then he’ll make everyone miserable, but I’m not family. I don’t have to love him no matter what.
I turn around, taking inventory of the shadows beneath his eyes, getting darker every day, but I pause, noticing the sallow color to his cheeks. There was anger in his voice, but his expression falters, like he’s just trying hard to be angry. Like it’s the last emotion he can muster, and I’m the only one who’s left.
I blink, glancing at the bottle and then back to him. “That shit isn’t doing you a bit of good.”
He sneers. “Every single brother of mine you’ve fucked drinks.”
“They drink for fun. You don’t.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” He backs off me and drops into a chair at the table, still fisting the bottle. “Right now, I’m hungry for food,” he tells me. “I want to eat, and that feels really good.”