look like some sex god where attaboys will be handed out, and Ry looks exactly the opposite.”
“But we’re married,” I shout, pissed off they’re treating her like a whore.
“That’s how I’m spinning it. Intimate moment between husband and wife. You didn’t know about the cameras. Sell the story that some sick fuck is taking advantage of you two caught in a passionate moment. Make him out to be the bad guy and that you are the victims.”
But I’m not a victim.
Never again.
Baxter’s collar jingles as he follows me through the darkened house. My eyes burn from staring at the computer. Keeping it turned off didn’t last very long. So many images, so many comments, and every single one of them was like a personal attack on me because they were all about Rylee. And it’s only been hours since the video has been released. I fear what the morning will bring.
Turn wounds into wisdom . My dad’s words ring in my ears and yet right now I’m not quite sure how that’s possible. Wisdom won’t punish the fucker who did this. It won’t let me sleep better at night. It won’t suffice as an apology to Rylee.
When I enter the bedroom, my feet falter and my hand with my drink stops halfway to my mouth when I see her. She’s lying on her left side, body pillow tucked under her big belly and between her legs, sound asleep. Every part of my body tenses and relaxes simultaneously at the sight of her: perfection I don’t deserve in any way, shape, or form.
Fucking Rylee.
My breath.
My life.
My kryptonite.
And now I’ve brought whatever the fuck this is down on her.
I sit in the chair across from the bed in our little sitting area that overlooks the beach darkened by the night beyond. It takes all I have not to crawl into bed and pull her against me and reassure her that everything is going to be fine again when she wakes up. Because it isn’t. Far fucking from it.
Silence is much better than bullshit.
So I sit in silence with my legs propped on the coffee table in front of me and pour myself another glass of whiskey. I can drown in it now—let it sing me to sleep—since it’s way too fucking late at night for anyone to need me.
I take a sip and watch Baxter go plop down on his bed. Shit, if he had a doghouse, I’d be in it tonight. And for good reason.
The alcohol burns but doesn’t dull the ache in my gut or take the edge off the unknown and worry. Only Rylee can do that, and she’s still not speaking to me.
I’ve done this husband thing for almost six years now. Thought I was doing a pretty damn good job at it. But then something like this happens and I’m reminded how little I can actually control, especially when it comes to taking care of those around me. There’s no stopping the crazy we are going to wake up to in the morning. In my heart of fucking hearts—the one she brought back to life again—I know this for a fact.
Just like I know we can withstand this tornado we’re in the middle of. It won’t be the first. I sure as fuck hope it will be the last. Such optimism when I’m used to living by the hope for the best, expect the worst approach.
Who the fuck did this to us? And why?
Thoughts, theories, speculation. All three circle in my head and none of them make sense.
Rylee. My goddamn perfection in this whirlwind of chaos and bullshit. She is the only thing still crystal clear to me. My spark. My light.
My chest constricts. We’re introducing a baby into this mix .
That lick of panic that’s been on standby is dulled by the Jack, but it’s still there.
Still flickering.
Still telling me there’s no turning back.
I WAKE WITH A START . It’s more than just the baby resting on my bladder. It’s that sudden awareness when I reach out to find cold sheets, realizing Colton’s not beside me. And then before I can shift to see if he even came to bed, yesterday comes flooding back to me.
In full 3D effect.
My whole body tenses. I want to pull the pillow over my head and
“But we’re married,” I shout, pissed off they’re treating her like a whore.
“That’s how I’m spinning it. Intimate moment between husband and wife. You didn’t know about the cameras. Sell the story that some sick fuck is taking advantage of you two caught in a passionate moment. Make him out to be the bad guy and that you are the victims.”
But I’m not a victim.
Never again.
Baxter’s collar jingles as he follows me through the darkened house. My eyes burn from staring at the computer. Keeping it turned off didn’t last very long. So many images, so many comments, and every single one of them was like a personal attack on me because they were all about Rylee. And it’s only been hours since the video has been released. I fear what the morning will bring.
Turn wounds into wisdom . My dad’s words ring in my ears and yet right now I’m not quite sure how that’s possible. Wisdom won’t punish the fucker who did this. It won’t let me sleep better at night. It won’t suffice as an apology to Rylee.
When I enter the bedroom, my feet falter and my hand with my drink stops halfway to my mouth when I see her. She’s lying on her left side, body pillow tucked under her big belly and between her legs, sound asleep. Every part of my body tenses and relaxes simultaneously at the sight of her: perfection I don’t deserve in any way, shape, or form.
Fucking Rylee.
My breath.
My life.
My kryptonite.
And now I’ve brought whatever the fuck this is down on her.
I sit in the chair across from the bed in our little sitting area that overlooks the beach darkened by the night beyond. It takes all I have not to crawl into bed and pull her against me and reassure her that everything is going to be fine again when she wakes up. Because it isn’t. Far fucking from it.
Silence is much better than bullshit.
So I sit in silence with my legs propped on the coffee table in front of me and pour myself another glass of whiskey. I can drown in it now—let it sing me to sleep—since it’s way too fucking late at night for anyone to need me.
I take a sip and watch Baxter go plop down on his bed. Shit, if he had a doghouse, I’d be in it tonight. And for good reason.
The alcohol burns but doesn’t dull the ache in my gut or take the edge off the unknown and worry. Only Rylee can do that, and she’s still not speaking to me.
I’ve done this husband thing for almost six years now. Thought I was doing a pretty damn good job at it. But then something like this happens and I’m reminded how little I can actually control, especially when it comes to taking care of those around me. There’s no stopping the crazy we are going to wake up to in the morning. In my heart of fucking hearts—the one she brought back to life again—I know this for a fact.
Just like I know we can withstand this tornado we’re in the middle of. It won’t be the first. I sure as fuck hope it will be the last. Such optimism when I’m used to living by the hope for the best, expect the worst approach.
Who the fuck did this to us? And why?
Thoughts, theories, speculation. All three circle in my head and none of them make sense.
Rylee. My goddamn perfection in this whirlwind of chaos and bullshit. She is the only thing still crystal clear to me. My spark. My light.
My chest constricts. We’re introducing a baby into this mix .
That lick of panic that’s been on standby is dulled by the Jack, but it’s still there.
Still flickering.
Still telling me there’s no turning back.
I WAKE WITH A START . It’s more than just the baby resting on my bladder. It’s that sudden awareness when I reach out to find cold sheets, realizing Colton’s not beside me. And then before I can shift to see if he even came to bed, yesterday comes flooding back to me.
In full 3D effect.
My whole body tenses. I want to pull the pillow over my head and
Similar Books
