Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 167(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 167(@300wpm)
I met her in the parking garage when she came home, tossed her the keys after helping her and Seb out of the Range Rover. She lit up. She’s finally getting used to the fact we’ve got enough money for me spoil her with. Before shit went down, I’d do things here or there, she’d get uncomfortable, and I’d drop the conversation, not wanting to add to her already full plate. This time around, I did things differently. The gloves came off, and while she still balks at some items I give her, she takes it. My wife has a hard time with the more expensive items, like jewelry. Needless to say, she loves her new wheels, and I love that she’s in something safer.
“Tío!” Sebastian greets me when the elevator door opens. All the shit from Night Moves disappears—the fucker who didn’t listen when he got kicked out, membership taken away, and banned for life from my club. When something of this magnitude happens, the type of situation that when a partner signals she’s done, you stop; you don’t keep going until security gets involved. He also doesn’t lurk in the shadows, waiting for his victim to come out. He was escorted out by security instead of attempting to do God fucking knows what.
“Mi chico.” My boy, I reply, walking out of the elevator. Seeing his arms are wide open, I drop to my knees. He’s looking for a hug, and I’ve got plenty to give my family after finishing beefing up security, sending out a company-wide email, and speaking to the police to trespass the offender. His victim is pressing charges, which makes for a sticky situation, allowing the club to be scrutinized. And while it sucks for business, needing to close Night Moves and Undercover Lovers for the next couples of days, I’d want to do similar in her situation and would suggest the same for anyone else.
“Mira.” He’s picking up more and more Spanish. He still can’t build complete sentences, but sometimes neither can I. My mom and dad talk to him in both languages when he’s over there, and the daycare we picked out does similar but with sight words, numbers, and letters.
Sebastian pulls out of my arms, holding out a piece of paper, long and skinny, black and white in color.
“What’s this?” I ask, reaching for it.
“I be big brother!” I’m only making out the name and the oddly-shaped picture when Sebastian clues me in.
“Where’s Aunt Winn, Seb?” I’d known something was up when she’d collapse on the couch the minute she came home with Sebastian. I also haven’t lost access to my wife’s pussy since she’s been back. That could have been because of her weight loss and stress she’d been through. Except, since she’s been back, the lack of eating hasn’t happened, she sleeps a solid eight hours if not more a night, and stress barely touches her life. What she has been dealing with is healing and moving on from the loss of her sister. Even in that aspect of life, she’s taken care of herself. There are times she’ll meet up with Lennie and Kenny, and they’ll talk and hash it out. Then lately, there’ve been more self-help books stacked on her nightstand. I finally told her the cold hard truth, that it’s time to talk to someone, a professional, especially on days when she struggles the most with feeling guilty. Guilt that we’re raising Sebastian instead of Melanie, how she could let a disease overtake her so badly, she chose the only way out. We talked about it, too, and while I’m sympathetic, my own anger for her made it impossible for me to feel anything for Mel, as fucked up as that sounds.
“She’s cooking.” He waves at his face and continues, “Eww, that smell.” He waits a beat, gets his foot tapping. “Can’t you smell?” Another pause. “That smell.” Sebastian’s music choice favors my side versus his aunt’s, a good thing, too, because as much as I love my wife, her taste in music is terrible. Thankfully, she’s not subjecting Seb to her affinity for honky-tonk music. I’ll give her this: some of it is good, but some of it, well, godawful is the term that comes to mind.
“What’s she making?” I stop him at the next round of lyrics of a song that talks about death. Yeah, my music probably isn’t much better when it comes to what they’re about, but at least the instruments are fucking phenomenal.
“Popcorn, but it stinky.” Now that he mentions it, I can smell the burnt aroma in the air.
“Alright, let’s go get Auntie. Were you supposed to hand me this?” I ask, wondering if Winn put him up to this as a surprise.
“Nope, but it good.” I stand up from my squatted position, and Seb wraps his arm around my neck and locks his legs around my waist.