Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
What our bio-mom did was messed up. It was wrong. She was a selfish, self-absorbed woman who couldn't see past her own insecurities lashing out at two little girls she was supposed to protect.
I think Brantley's father was something worse.
And what he put him through was bad. Really bad.
Even now, it torments him. The pain lingers in his eyes when he's awake. It haunts his mind when he's asleep. He spent years trying to drink it away. But the thing about pain? You can't drown it in the bottle of a bottle. And you can't retroactively turn yourself into someone awful enough to have deserved the painful things that were done to you. I may not know a lot about how the world works, but I know that much. I spent enough time in therapy to learn that much.
Brantley didn't get his father killed. But for some reason, he's hellbent on letting everyone believe he's responsible. I'm not entirely sure why. But it's starting to worry me. Is he trying to protect Bellamy's memory? Is he trying to keep the truth from coming out? Or is it worse than that? Is he punishing himself because he thinks it's what he deserves? I'm not sure. But whatever the reason…it's obviously weighing heavily on his mind. Even asleep, he's suffering over it.
"No. Don't," he groans, jerking again.
"Brantley, wake up." I cup his cheek, stroking his stubbly beard. "You're safe. I'm right here."
I think he hears me, or he recognizes my touch. Even before he wakes, his body relaxes. He leans into my hand, sighing softly. And then his eyes flash open, locking with mine. He blinks me into focus, fear and pain bleeding from the depths of his eyes.
"Isla, shit," he whispers, his voice a rough rasp of sound. "I fell asleep."
"We both did." I stroke his jaw again, giving him a tiny smile. Maybe I should feel shy or something after what we did, but I don't. It's odd. With most of the world, I find myself keeping large parts of myself hidden, hesitant to share them. With him, I don't feel the same way. I want to split myself open at the seams and expose every messy piece.
"Fuck. I'm probably crushing you." His muscles coil like he's going to launch himself off the couch away from me.
I immediately lock my legs around his hips, stopping him. "Don't go," I whisper when his gaze lands on my face again. "You're not hurting me." I smile again. "I kind of like you right where you are."
He doesn't return my smile. He seems…stressed.
"I had a nightmare," he mutters.
"Yeah, you did. If you're worried that I'm going to ask you about it, I'm not," I promise. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to tell me."
He stares at me for a long moment and then sighs softly and rolls us so we're face to face on our sides, our legs tangled together. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a curious little bird, baby?"
"A few times." I grin at him as he reaches up, brushing tendrils of hair behind my ear. "But seriously, I get it. I never liked when people pried into my stuff. I'm not going to pry into yours. I just…" I bite my lip. "I hope you talk to someone."
"I do." He clears his throat. "Daniel is my sponsor."
My brows furrow. "The cowboy at your office?"
"That's the one."
"I thought you said he was your assistant."
"No, I said he claims he's my assistant," he mutters, affectionate exasperation in his tone. "He hired himself. Don't fucking ask me why. He's a trained psychologist. That's what he should be doing instead of harassing me all goddamn day."
"Maybe that is what he's doing," I suggest, fighting a smile.
"Yeah, maybe." He brushes his thumb along my bottom lip. "He hired himself right after…" His throat works as he swallows. "Shit, it's complicated."
"You don't have to tell me."
"My father was an addict," he says anyway. "He hid it well because it wasn't often. At least not at first. He'd take a few days off and go on a bender or spend weekends high as a kite. It's like he was Jekyll and Hyde. Sober, he treated us well. High, he'd get violent."
I scoot closer to him, listening intently.
"For a while, my mother bore the brunt of his rage. But I heard him hurting her one day, and I just…had enough. I tried to get him off her." His throat works convulsively, as if he's trying to swallow the painful memories. "He locked me in the closet and left me there, said he was teaching me a lesson," he whispers, his voice cracking. "I spent two days in that fucking closet, only allowed out to use the bathroom."
"Brantley," I whisper as tears spring to my eyes. "How old were you?"