Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
“Oops,” slurs my daughter’s voice. “That rug came out of nowhere.”
Shea wince-giggles, separating from me and it’s all I can do not to tug her back against my side. Continue whispering secrets with her in front of the fire. My daughter has obviously returned home drunk, however, and both of us reluctantly leave the living room to go help her. We find her in a heap in the entry way, attempting to stand up.
“Before you ask, yes, I’m drunk,” Emma says when she sees us coming. “It was an accident. I ran right into those shots. Bang.”
Despite being distracted over what just happened in the living room, I can’t help but shake my head in amusement. “All right, come on, kid.” I scoop Emma up off the floor and carry her in direction of the guest room. “Some sleep will do you good.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Emma yawns. “You’re pretty cool, you know that?”
“I’ll grab her some water,” Shea murmurs, slipping toward the kitchen.
I settle Emma down on one side of the guest bed and step back, observing her as she kicks off her shoes and snuggles into the pillow. Shea appears in the doorway holding a glass of water and wow, it’s a good thing Emma is drunk or there is no way she wouldn’t notice that her friend looks like she’s been mauled by a tiger.
Red marks adorn her delicate neck.
Whisker burns galore.
Drowsy eyes. Smeared lip gloss. A bemused expression.
Pride prowls right to left in my gut. I might have been rough, but I fucked her right.
Shea crosses the room, inserting herself between me and the bed where Emma is already starting to drift off. “Here,” Shea says, shaking Emma’s shoulder. “Drink this glass of water. You’ll feel better for it in the morning.”
“How do you know so much about drunk people?” Emma asks, propping herself up on an elbow.
“From you,” Shea says, without irony.
They laugh.
“You guys are the best,” Emma says, after downing the water. “I don’t deserve you.”
Shea looks back at me over her shoulder, guilt etched into her features.
Yeah, I’m feeling it, too. Guilt.
I’m a father. I’m thirty-six. Too old and in no position to be sneaking around with my daughter’s eighteen-year-old friend. Especially when there’s a possibility that me and Emma might finally form a bond after years of stilted communication.
“Good night,” Shea mutters, putting her head down, walking past me and closing herself in the ensuite bathroom.
I can hear it in her tone. See it in her posture.
She feels as terrible as I do about what we’ve done behind Emma’s back.
But as I leave the guest room and walk through the dark house, it’s impossible to ignore the voice in the back of my head that grows louder with every step.
Mine.
Mine.
Fucking mine.
The next morning, I leave before Emma and Shea are awake.
I spend a couple of hours at the office delegating tasks and setting appointments for remodeling estimates. Business is booming and that’s a great thing. It took me years to build my reputation in this county, and the hard work is paying off in spades.
Once I leave the office, I make stops at various job sites, pick up building materials and deliver them to one of our bigger remodels. By the time I’m able to stop by Emma and Shea’s apartment to survey the leak damage, it’s damn near four o’clock.
Letting myself into their place, I whistle under my breath at the caved in ceiling, a tremor going through my limbs at the thought of either girl being underneath it when the water broke through. Shit could have been a lot worse—but the damage is extensive.
My boots crunch through plaster and debris as I walk through the apartment, front to back, making mental notes about which crew members will be assigned to the job, based on their specialties. Supply cost. Time frame. I’m assuming Emma and Shea want to be back in their place as soon as possible.
And I want that, too, right?
I close my eyes and think of Shea underneath me, whimpering and scratching at my back while my body moves inside of her. Taking my beating and loving it. God, she’s so tight and slippery between her legs, she should come with a warning label. I’m functioning as needed this morning, but memories of her body, her voice, her scent…they stalk me—
The sound of sobbing stops me in my tracks.
Someone is in the apartment.
Crying.
Who?
I advance farther down the hallway, following the sound of hiccupping. At the end of the hall, there’s a bedroom door on the right and I push it open to find Shea staring into her closet, tears rolling down her cheeks. And it’s easy to see why. There is a hole torn in the ceiling of her closet and all her clothes have been blackened by dirty water. Textbooks have been waterlogged. Photo albums destroyed.