Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 84928 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84928 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
But, somehow, I still wanted it.
I wanted it the way I knew I wanted to take my next breath; the way I wanted to share a joke with Breaker again; the way I wanted to tease Alex; the way I wanted to make amends with Dade.
I wanted it with a certainty that went beyond something casual.
And, well, that was the scariest fucking thing I had ever realized in my life.
Five
Amelia
I felt listless after lunch. I got back to my office and sat at my desk, shuffling through the forms I needed to fill out to keep receiving state funding for the program. You know, the forms that kept me employed. But I couldn't concentrate. I looked at the pages long enough for the words to start to swim and become unreadable. On a frustrated huff, I collected the papers and threw them into my top drawer, resting my elbows on the surface of my desk and cradling the sides of my head in my hands.
I didn't want to like him, not even after finding out he had good reason to be angry and spiteful toward his father. I didn't want to let him in. And, I realized with a clarity that made the lunch in my stomach churn, I apparently had no choice in the matter. He found a crack and he slithered in. I knew the exact moment it happened too; when he told me about his baby teeth. I couldn't help but think of a young Johnnie, those big green eyes on a little boy face, blood pouring out of his mouth, Ben storming away from his son's injuries to go bury the memory at the bottom of a bottle.
What did that say about me, that I liked someone because of their trauma?
A part of me whispered that it said I had some trauma of my own, but I ignored that voice.
The attraction, well, that was a problem. He was hot. And on top of hot, he was the best sweet talker I had ever come across. There was only so much resistance a woman could convince herself she needed to demonstrate. I wanted him. I wanted him like I had never wanted a man before. But that didn't mean I planned on giving in. Okay. If he had kissed me in the diner, well, I would have given in. But I was all hyped up on his putting those jerks in their place and his ability to see right through me. Now, with a little space between that, I was seeing more clearly.
Because, well, he was a gosh darn killer. He killed people for a living!
So even if I really wanted him, he was the least appropriate option.
I did not need to get involved in his kind of darkness. My life was finally darkness free. I wasn't going to willingly fall back into that. And, well, he was gone in a couple days. I wasn't the kind of woman who had a one-nighter, or two-nighter. That wasn't how I was wired. I didn't do casual. Then again, I didn't do complicated either. Actually, I didn't do anything with men.
"Augh," I growled, picking up my globe-shaped stress ball and flinging it against the wall.
Then I did something I never did; I grabbed my purse and I left work early. See, I liked work. I liked knowing I had a purpose. I liked focusing on anything other than my empty apartment I spent way too much time cleaning with an OCD-like drive because I literally had nothing else to do with my time. As mundane and dull as all the paperwork could be at times, it was something to do. We held four meetings every week, chafing against my belief that there needed to be one each night so people could properly complete their recovery process. How were the people in town supposed to do their ninety meetings in ninety days if we didn't offer that service? But, unfortunately, that was not up to me. That was up to Father Sanders. And Father Sanders believed two meetings a week for alcoholics and two meetings a week for narcotics was more than enough.
That night was the first alcoholics anonymous meeting since Ben died. It was going to be a rough one, for me and for the people in the group. If there was ever a day to take off early and get myself together, that was the one. I tried to push the unreasonable stab of guilt away as I climbed into my car and headed back to my apartment.
I paused for the barest of moments outside of Ben's (Johnnie's) door. Okay. I paused for at least a minute before I snapped myself out of it and let myself into my own place. I paced around restlessly, kitchen to living room to sliding doors to the balcony. On the other side of the wall, there were no sounds from Johnnie. If I hadn't seen his car outside when I pulled up, I would have assumed he wasn't around, given how loud he seemed to be whenever he did anything. Not entirely sure what possessed me to do so, maybe as an apology for being so nasty to him, or maybe just for an excuse to maybe have a run-in with him again in the near future, I moved to the kitchen and got out my nicest pitcher and poured most of the contents of my sweet tea into it. I grabbed some of the banana bread I had baked the day before and piled it on a plate, wrapped it in plastic, and headed into the hall.
I was half-bent toward the ground where I planned on leaving the plate and pitcher when the door flew open, making me yelp and almost lose my balance. My head jerked up as I straightened to see Johnnie standing there in his creepers and black jeans, but wholly devoid of a shirt. I repeat: he didn't have a shirt on. And whatever fantasies I had conjured up in my head about what he looked like underneath his clothes, well, they fell so short it was laughable. His tattoos didn't just snake up his arms and across his chest. No, his tattoos covered every bare inch of skin from his throat to the waistband of his jeans. There were vivid, colorful images I knew instantly I could spend hours studying, trying to memorize every line, running my fingers over the strong muscles underneath.