Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Her hand flies across his face, and I tense, my brain slowly unraveling what’s happening in front of me.
He rubs his jaw, turning his head back to face her. “I remember you liking my hands on you.”
My stomach drops, and the room tilts in front of me. “What …” I draw in a deep breath, one after another as I remember his words from last night. Her friends, he said.
Macon looks down at me, but I don’t meet his eyes.
He’d said the woman passed him around to her friends. One of them was my mom. Why didn’t he tell me?
“You don’t get to fuck her!” my mother yells.
But I’m shaking my head, even as Macon turns me to face him and covers my ears with his hands. He holds me close as she shrieks.
“How dare you!”
Her words are muffled, but I can still hear her. I squeeze my eyes shut.
She hurt him. She preyed on him.
Why didn’t he tell me?
I hug the pillow. What are the odds that he happens to fall for the daughter of the woman who coerced him into sex?
I stop breathing for a second. What are the odds I just happen to go to bed with the same guy?
I look up at him. “How long have you known who I was?”
His jaw flexes.
I pull away from his hands over my ears. “How long?”
“He targeted you!” my mother says.
Macon holds my eyes, shaking his head slowly.
“Because he hates us,” she goes on. “Because he likes playing with our women like we’re his toys.”
“There was nothing I liked about you,” he hisses at her.
He moves back in, grabbing my face and holding my forehead to his. “Get in my car,” he whispers. “Don’t get dressed. Bring nothing. Just get in the car.”
“She’s not going anywhere—”
He yanks away from me and walks into my mother, forcing her to back up. “I don’t want to hear your voice. Speak again and you’ll regret it.”
She sucks in short, shallow breaths, visibly shaken.
And for the first in a long time, I’m reminded of his reputation.
People are afraid of him for a reason. Maybe not back when she paid a young man who desperately needed the money, but life didn’t make him a monster. People like her did.
My mother backs away and takes out her phone. “I’m calling the police.”
She runs from the room.
But he stays.
I search his eyes. “How long have you known who I was?” I ask him.
He stares down at me, and when he squares his shoulders, I know. “I’ve always known who you were.”
My mind floods with every moment I was in his house, at his table, working his restaurant, bringing him meals, throwing myself at him that night in the garage … He knew I was her daughter.
“You sent Army after me to offer me a job that night,” I say, remembering what Trace said. “Were you going to use me?”
“If I were going to use you, I had a lot of opportunities,” he says. “I could’ve let you make that video with my brothers.”
He takes my face again.
“I sent Army after you that night because I liked you,” he whispers. “Because I wanted more of you. Because I’d never seen a woman be so soft with herself and touch herself like that. Because I didn’t want you to be where I couldn’t see you every day.”
My lip trembles. Why didn’t he tell me? Was he ever going to?
I don’t realize a tear has spilled until he wipes it away with his thumb. “I wanted you close, because when you cried, I could feel it and knew this place was going to kill you, too, and for the first time in a long time, I was protective. I wanted you in the Bay where I could keep you safe.”
I believe him. It sounds like him. And Macon is not someone who ever feels the need to lie.
But I believe everyone. That’s my problem. I assume everyone is good and honest with pure intentions, and I can’t remember a single time when that’s worked out for me. I’m naïve and stupid, and I don’t have a lick of street smarts like Clay or Liv. Or like Aracely.
I still think unicorns just might exist, and Macon would set a Christmas tree on fire.
He shakes his head, seeing it in my eyes. “Don’t do this. Don’t.”
“How many times?”
He blinks hard. “Krisjen, please.”
“How many?” I bark.
I need to know how many times they were alone together. Did he have her in the shower? Where did she touch him? Did he kiss her?
Tight-lipped, he replies. “A few.”
“A few like three, or a few like ten?”
He drops his eyes. “A few like I blocked it out.”
I laugh bitterly, backing away. “She must’ve liked it.”
He must’ve been doing enough right that she kept coming back. Why didn’t he tell me? He knows everyone I’ve slept with. He knew before we did anything. I don’t need his list, but I should’ve known about my fucking mother!