Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
I pursed my lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He watched me as he silently polished another glass, that intense gaze on his face as I waited for the questions. About Jasper. About my life in New York. There was no longer any space for us to ignore it.
Elliot let out a long breath. “Do you want to go home?”
My spine straightened. “Home?”
He nodded.
Home. He spoke of it like it was something we had. Something we shared. I knew I’d best correct him.
“Yeah, I’d like to go home,” I replied quietly.
Twenty-Three
I Was Just Leaving — Ryan Montbleau
We were at Elliot’s. There was no question about it … it was home.
Elliot had made good on his promise and fucked me with urgency, intensity. I’d let out all the coiled steam from the interaction with Jasper, but even after three life-shattering orgasms, there was a tension inside of me that wouldn’t unravel until all of this was over. Until the cat was out of the bag.
I was wearing Elliot’s tee and panties, curled up on the sofa, cradling the martini he’d wordlessly made me after sex, despite the late hour. Elliot often went to bed early because he rose early. But it was an unspoken agreement that both of us were too keyed up to sleep. He shared sips from the glass with me, my back against his chest, both of us basking in the silence.
“What is this from?” Elliot’s rough fingers traced over the small scar on my forehead. No one else had noticed the thin line. It was almost invisible to the naked eye. It helped trick me into believing that the damage hadn’t been that severe since the only reminder on my body was a small, thin scar.
I could’ve lied. That had been my plan. If anyone asked questions about the scar, there would be a lie. About racquetball, about mixing booze and sleeping pills and passing out in the kitchen. Anything but the truth.
“I, uh, had a run-in with the Russian Mob.” Chewing my lip, I wondered if he could hear my thundering heart. “Not a run-in, that’s a lie. I used to work for them. The semi-legitimate side of their operation, at least. The scar is from me refusing to work for them once I grasped the breadth of what I was doing. What I was contributing to.”
When he asked the question, Elliot’s expression had been serene, curious, his tone almost lazy. Elliot, who had grown up in Jupiter, on fishing boats, hadn’t gone any further. He wasn’t stupid by any means, he was educated, smart. But to Elliot, a scar on a forehead meant a trip and fall, a fishhook, a benign, everyday accident.
When everything about him stiffened, I regretted not making up some excuse. But it was time. Past time to tell Elliot everything.
“Tell me more.” His demand was stated softly, yet there was a thin tremor of rage simmering underneath the words.
“There’s not much to tell,” I lied, unable to meet his eyes. I’d known this was coming. A long overdue explanation for all the shit I’d put him through. The shooting, the fire, Jasper contaminating his life.
Elliot raked a hand through his curls. “There’s a fuck of a lot to tell.”
“Can you just know I wasn’t a Girl Scout before I moved here and leave it at that?” I was such a fucking coward. I’d known this entire time that I would have to tell Elliot the truth, but now I was chickening out.
“Nope.” Elliot’s gaze was heavy, making it clear that he wasn’t going to budge on this, wasn’t going to let me bury my head in the sand. I respected him for that. Loved him for that.
I bit my lip, still hedging, wringing out every second I could where he still looked at me like I was someone worth looking at. “It’ll make you change the way you think of me.”
His mouth tightened. “You having a scar on your face, likely put there by a violent man, isn’t going to make me think a single thing different or bad about you, Calliope.”
“The scar is a result of me willingly, knowingly getting involved with, making money for the Russian Mob. Your ire is for the nice girls who get tangled up with violent men through no fault of their own. Nice girls don’t get tangled up with the Russian Mob, Elliot.”
Elliot’s nostrils flared in obvious irritation, anger. So completely unfamiliar to me. I was triggering those parts of him. Bringing out those harsh emotions that didn’t belong on his face. “Nice girls get tangled up with monstrous men every day.”
I sucked in a deep breath. He might’ve been right, for other women, but not me. “But I’m not a nice girl. Never was. And the story of how I got this,” I pointed to my face, “is not flattering.”