Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
He stumbles back as if he’s been hit by a blow. “Khloe?” He says. His voice cracks suddenly. I turn my head as he reaches for me again. His hand stay suspended in the air when I angle away from him to avoid his contact with my cheek. He’s done it a million times. It kills me not to turn into his large, warm hand. “Oh fuck, Sweet Girl. What have I done?”
I’ll never forget the sight of the tear I see running down his cheek as I turn and bolt from the room.
Chapter 34
Kid
The doctor mentioned the memories could flood back at any time. What I didn’t expect is the love, regret, and pain to hit me all at once.
“Khloe,” I whisper. It kills me when she positions her body so I can’t touch her. “Oh, fuck, Sweet Girl. What have I done?”
I don’t even try to fight the burn behind my eyes as the first tear fights it way past my lashes. I close my eyes and welcome the pain. She’s already fled by the time I open them again.
I’m pinned in place, only able to turn my head and stare into the empty room.
I hit my knees and cover my head with my hands; a vain attempt to stop the extremely detailed memories that are flooding my mind.
The warm feeling I got in my chest every time she texted me in Vegas.
The realization that I’d never let her go.
The way her lips felt on mine.
The perfect way her body curved against me while I held her at night.
The glazed look in her eyes when she came from touching herself.
The way Snapper moaned when I fucked her after getting out of the hospital.
“Oh God. Please, no,” I moan rocking back and forth.
I feel a warm hand touch my back, and I snap my head up finding Emmalyn, not Khloe.
“You remember?” she says softly.
I swallow roughly. “I’ve fucked up so bad.”
“You didn’t know,” Em says soothingly.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say before bolting up and running outside.
I barely clear the steps out front before I’m emptying my stomach into the bushes. I remember the day they were planted by Emmalyn and Khloe. It was also the same day my tongue first stroked over Khloe’s in the kitchen. It was the day I hitched her leg up high on my hip, and I allowed, for a split second, my erection to rub against the thinnest yoga pants ever made.
I stand and wipe my mouth on the hem of my t-shirt. How can all of these memories be so vivid now, when minutes ago, I was seeing Khloe like it was the first day that I’d met her? I’m disgusted with myself.
Every memory is vivid.
The way I grabbed Em’s ass when I first got back.
Shadow telling me Khloe was off limits, but getting called out front by Kincaid before he could explain why.
The shitty comment I made about ‘new club pussy.’
Jesus.
The way I fucked Snapper on my bed as if I were a single man.
The way I enjoyed fucking her at the time.
I bend in the middle again as another wave of nausea hits. My stomach, now empty, hasn’t given up, and I continue to dry heave for what seems like days.
The way Khloe’s hair feels sifting through my fingers.
The tangle of Snapper’s hair in my fist.
Khloe’s hot breath on my chest as she slept.
Snapper’s lips wrapped around my cock.
I stumble from in front of the clubhouse and close myself inside of the garage. I grab the bottle of whiskey from the top of the fridge. I haven’t taken the pain pills for the last two days, but at this point, it wouldn’t matter. I spin the lid off, not caring that it hits the concrete floor and bounced away. Getting drunk is the only thing I can think of that may help this situation, so I doubt the lid will ever need to be returned to the top.
I turn it up and chug, relishing the fire that burns down my throat and hits my empty stomach. I feel queasy again, so I wash that discomfort down with another chug of the golden liquid.
I pace and drink until the bottle is empty and smashed against the wall. The whiskey barely takes the edge off. I’ve fucked up. It’s nothing new to me. I’ve done it more than once in my lifetime, and I’m sure to do it again. The difference is this time I’ve hurt a woman I care for more than any other person before her. Her heartbreak was evident in her eyes; in the dark, under-eye circles marring her usually perfect skin.
I have no clue what to do now. The whiskey is telling me to go inside and profess every single undying feeling I have for her, but the still semi-cognizant part of my brain knows that shit won’t fly. I don’t even know if there is a chance to repair the damage I’ve done.