Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
You asked not to be put up in a hotel, arsewipe.
This time, the voice in my head sounds suspiciously like my brother. The brother I should thank for putting me in this one-horse town. With that thought, I grab my phone again and quickly scan the reservation information. I’m booked here for two nights. I guess I’d better find myself somewhere a little bigger to stay because two days is not going to be enough time to—to what? To make up for seven lost years? To plan for the next ten going forward. Twenty? Fuck, who am I kidding—this sense of responsibility will be for the rest of my life. I’m nearly thirty myself, and my old mum still worries about me.
Like I’ve been physically stunned, I fall back onto the pillows. Kennedy’s a mum now. And I, I am a dad. A fucking dad! And it’s amazing and mind-blowing and the most frightening thing I’ve ever experienced.
When I saw Kennedy yesterday, my mind jumped back to those lost years, past losses and fuckups and split-second decisions that led to losing her. But there she was again, and I felt pretty fucking elated. For seconds at least, until I’d processed the stiffness in her body as I’d thrown my arms around her.
I might’ve been the one who left, but I’m also the dumb fuck that she somehow left behind. Left me in the past but took a little reminder of me. And all that confusion and hurt and bitterness fell away as I’d gotten a glimpse of the kid. I don’t know how to explain how I feel about her. Maybe it’s more the case that I don’t dare to examine it. But still, I seem to feel, “Pretty. Fucking. Elated.”
I slide my hand behind my head. Maybe fate has smiled down on me, giving me a second chance. But nothing is ever that simple, even if I’ve thought of her often.
The nights I’ve lain awake, remembering that night. Of how I’d swallowed bourbon I could barely taste, mesmerised by the magic in her dark eyes. Of how ecstatic I’d felt when I’d finally got the others to fuck off, and I had her all to myself. Then later, in the hotel room, we’d made the kind of memories that have kept me awake these past eight years. Often with my cock in my hand.
How’s that for unhealthy? I’d say it’s right up there.
But I’d told myself it was only natural, that it was less about her and our connection and more about how it was the one bright moment before everything flipped on its head the following day. Like a before and after shot of the life I still live.
It was fucking unnerving to discover that wasn’t the case yesterday. That it was all her. My body—my mind—lit up in her presence like a fucking pinball machine. It felt like a surge of electricity, a swelling of pure and unadulterated happiness, like the pain of afterward wasn’t even a thing. And then I saw. I saw him. My son. And now I’m beginning to understand why the memory of that night has never dimmed.
Because that was the night we made him. And maybe that’s why I’ve never really moved on. That I’ve never really wanted to. And maybe it’ll be harder from here on in. Maybe, once we have this conversation, I’ll never look at her differently. Maybe I’ll hate to hear what she has to say. Maybe I’ll hate her. Or maybe I’ll have to try fucking hard not to as we begin to navigate the rocky waters of parenthood. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t want to look at her after today and remember that night. You know, given she’s now the mother of my child.
I slide a hand under my pillow as a sly smile curls on my lips. That’s such a crock of shit. The Madonna-whore complex might be a thing for some blokes, but not this one. She might not have hair down to her bum anymore, and she might not have exactly looked pleased to see me, but I can’t imagine I’d ever be able to think of her or look at her without feeling that visceral kick of desire deep in my belly.
Lifting my head a touch, I glance down to where the sheet tents over my crotch. Just thinking about her has given me a semi. I give my cock an experimental squeeze and as I consider indulging in . . . you know, before Kennedy turns up at the door. Rub one out and lighten the load of baby batter—
I cringe at my unfortunate turn of phrase.
What I’m getting at is, when Kennedy turns up in an hour or so, something tells me I’ll need to think with my big head, not my little one. So I need to deal with my little head first so I can concentrate on something other than the tiny freckle sitting in the hollow of her top lip and how I want to devour her from that freckle down.