Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
He’d sat in the same spot on Ro’s front porch, since eight this morning, the swing barely moving beneath him.
He wasn’t rocking to relax, or doing any of the things people did when they sat outside in a quiet suburban neighborhood at the end of the day.
He was just existing there, elbows on his knees, fingers clasped loosely, staring past the manicured lawns and clean sidewalks.
Syn had been hurt before. He’d been shot, stabbed, stitched up, dog-tired from long shifts. He knew physical pain and exhaustion. He knew rage, guilt, fear, and frustration.
But he didn’t know this.
Loss.
The loss of Furi’s long hair sliding between his fingers, of hearing his laugh at the end of the night, his taste. The loss of his warmth, the void in the empty space beside him when he slept.
He missed him so badly it hurt everywhere.
And that pissed him off, because missing Furi didn’t cancel out what had happened. Loving him didn’t make the lie okay. Wanting to go home didn’t negate the contract his partner signed without talking to him first.
But underneath all the anger, another voice started whispering.
You should’ve handled your responsibilities, and he wouldn’t’ve had to do it.
That damn voice didn’t care that he’d worked himself to the bone, or that he’d taken every shift, delivery order, and humiliation that came with it. He’d tried so hard, God, he’d tried—to keep a roof over their heads, the shop running, food in the house, the bills paid.
He’d failed.
Look how bad you let it get before Furi had to jump in and save you?
Syn pressed his palms against his closed lids.
His skin felt rough. He hadn’t shaved, slept or eaten much of anything Ro put in front of him, hadn’t said much either.
Ro stopped trying to fill the silence by the second day.
Johnson gave him space in the way quiet men did. He’d left plates wrapped in foil on the kitchen counter, bottles of water near the porch, a clean towel in the guest bathroom each night, and the TV remote on the couch just in case he got tired of the nothing.
He sat on the porch from sunup to sundown, watching the neighborhood.
He knew the woman across the street watered her porch plants at six-thirty every evening. The retired man two houses down walked his terrier at seven-fifteen in the morning, went to play golf for roughly three hours, then came home and walked his dog at five forty-five.
A teenage girl with purple braids got dropped off after cheer practice at four-twenty, always slamming the car door before her mother could finish yelling something after her.
The mailman came by at noonish and cursed each time someone blocked their driveway with their car and he had to get out to put the mail in the box.
The couple on the corner argued every afternoon in their garage, because the husband took too long to stop working on his seventy-six Chevy and come inside for dinner before it got cold.
Life revolved in neat little loops around him.
Lawns got cut. Dogs barked. Sprinklers clicked on. Neighbors waved to each other.
People came home from work, carried groceries, went for walks, grilled outside, kissed spouses in their doorways, before disappearing behind lit windows.
Syn watched it all like a half-dead zombie.
It was almost six when Ro came up the walkway from his truck with his gym bag slung over his shoulder, skin damp, T-shirt clinging to his chest, blue eyes narrowed against the low sun.
He paused at the bottom of the porch steps and looked at him.
Syn didn’t look back.
Ro climbed the five steps slowly, the boards creaking under his weight. He set the gym bag near the door and leaned one shoulder against the post with his arms folded.
“You want chicken or pasta for dinner?”
Syn shook his head.
“That wasn’t one of the options.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t been hungry in days.”
“A man can go three months without eating.”
Ro huffed. “Come on, Sarge.”
Syn clenched his jaw.
He loved Ro. He did. He was family. His brother, first officer, pain in his ass, and one of his emergency contacts. But he wasn’t in the mood to hear his voice of reason.
Ro sat in the porch chair beside him instead of standing over him.
“You can’t sit out here forever.”
Syn stared at the house across the street. “Sure I can.”
Ro sighed. “You haven’t checked on the shop, answered any calls or texts.”
“I’m on vacation.”
“That’s cute.”
Syn swallowed against the dry ache in his throat.
Ro leaned forward. “I’m not saying go home tonight. I’m not saying forgive him because— ”
“Enough,” he glared.
“Enough what?” Ro glared back.
“Enough defending him.”
“I’m not defending what he did.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not,” Ro said firmly. “I’m telling you he was just trying to help.”
Syn laughed, ugly and hollow. “Men who wanna help, talk to their partners. They don’t sign legally binding contracts and lie about it.”