Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Except for Gia. But she wasn’t a human. She was a goddess.
“I think I’ll just go to bed if that’s okay.” Gia looked around her, hugging her midriff.
I stepped sideways to give her access to the door. “I have a weighted blanket somewhere. Would you like me to bring it to our bed?”
“I’d like to sleep here if that’s okay.” She licked her lips. “Alone.”
I’d been shot before. Once. In the ass. It happened when wife number two caught me in bed with her sister. Or maybe it was her cousin. Anyway, they bore adequate similarities, and by the time I realized I was fucking the wrong person, I was too close to the finish line to stop.
I was running stark naked from the French chateau where it happened when she decided to aim a vintage rifle at me from her Juliet balcony. The bullet not only grazed my ass, it took out a nice chunk of it. At the time, I thought nothing could be more painful or humbling than to have my ass stitched together sans painkiller while a judgmental doctor listened to my ex-wife animatedly explain how the accident occurred.
But I was wrong.
This was worse.
Far worse.
More painful. More humiliating. More everything.
“Alone,” I repeated. “Of course. Can I get you anything before I leave? Water? Tea? Some Advil?”
She shook her head. “I just want to rest. I haven’t really slept well since they transferred Mum to hospice. I kept waking up every hour to check my phone.”
I evacuated myself from her room, stalking off to my office. An office that currently looked like a math book vomited all over it. Every inch was covered in numbers. I cracked open some books. I did my equations. I tapped. I counted hardcovers on shelves. Grains in an hourglass. Tiles on floors. I read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in English.
And Flemish.
And French.
Nothing helped. I wanted to claw my skin off my fucking body.
It was never about my OCD. It was all the other stuff Dr. Patel diagnosed me with. The things I ran away from. The mood swings. The chemical deficit. What were his exact words? Oh yeah—the antisocial personality disorder you struggle with, paired with your cognitive distortion and traumatic past, is the equivalent of sitting on a barrel full of dynamite and playing with matches. I strongly recommend psychotherapy, keeping up with your mood stabilizers, and cognitive behavioral therapy. Consistency is key.
I was sick.
I had been sick for a very long time.
I’d had no one to get better for.
Until now.
I’d been selfish, I realized. Selfish in pursuing my revenge, in putting Gia at risk. Selfish for not taking care of my mental health, my issues, my shortcomings, and letting everyone around me bear the consequences.
I would never be a good man.
But I would be a good husband.
I logged into my email and was about to answer Dr. Patel. Then, thinking better of it, I called him. It was one in the morning, but he’d survive.
“Tate,” Dr. Patel answered on the first ring. Talk about a fucking fanboy.
“Arjun.”
Silence ensued before I managed to push the words out of my mouth. The last time we spoke, it ended with me stalking out of his office in a blaze of fury.
“I got married.”
“Congratulations.” His voice was neutral and belied his true feelings. “I’m guessing Gia Bennett is the lucky bride.”
“Yes.”
He knew, because in our last session, I’d foolishly told him why I hired her. About how I made her life a living hell.
And thought about her every time I fucked someone.
And dreamed about her every single moment she wasn’t next to me.
He pleaded with me to get evaluated for a bunch of other shit. I refused. He told me I was emotionally harassing her because I resented her for stirring emotions in me. That I was in love with her.
I told him he was high and needed to have his license revoked.
Things got…heated. I left.
I left, because I thought I knew better.
But I didn’t. And now here I was.
“I need to get better.” I swallowed. “For her.”
“For both of you,” he corrected softly. “When can I see you?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. I knew he was booked out a year, but he’d find time for me. “I’ll pay you double to meet me at an unorthodox hour.”
“No need for that. How about ten thirty p.m.?”
“Yes.”
I killed the call and fell to my knees, surrendering to the new, foreign feeling I had been trying to run away from for the past few weeks.
For the past few years.
For my entire life.
Love.
It was four fifteen in the morning when I woke up.
The red numbers on the digital clock stared back at me defiantly, daring me to try to go back to sleep. My whole body felt drained and deflated. My stomach growled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.