Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
She’d said I was a good man who deserved to be happy and not tied down, that in finding out about Louis, I’d be honourable but perhaps miserable. She said she deserved happiness, too, and that falling in love with me was a real possibility. So she protected herself by locking me out and then letting men like me objectify her body. For a price.
‘I’m sorry. Whisky was a mistake. I should’ve known it’d make me maudlin.’ I put my glass down and stand abruptly, feeling like I could run a fucking mile—a mile away from me and the way guilt tightens my skin. Run from the sincerity in her whisky gaze, sure she’ll see the real me. I push both hands through my hair, my gaze looking anywhere but at her. As my eyes slide to the industrial-size clock on the kitchen wall, I realise it’s only eight o’clock. ‘I haven’t had much time to exercise lately, what with having Louis and all, so I think I’ll go for a run.’
Without giving her time to answer or read my expression, I leave the room.
11
Ella
Way to go, Ella. Way to make the nice man spill his guts, espèce d’idiot.
I don’t turn as I hear the squeak of his running shoes on the floorboards behind me, and he doesn’t say goodbye before I hear the front door click shut.
That man would rather literally pound the pavement than spend time with me. And who would blame him?
I’m not usually the person people spill their guts to. Not that I can’t be trusted, because I can. It’s just, people don’t ordinarily seek me out as some kind of unofficial confessional. The person they divulge secrets to. Point in fact—those four years I was dating someone who happened to forget to tell me he was gay.
I sigh and throw back the paltry amount of whisky Mac had put in my glass, assuming I’m some delicate flower who can’t handle her booze.
‘Hells bells and buckets of blood!’ I wheeze, the harsh taste burning my tongue, then my oesophagus. On second thought, the burn isn’t too bad, I decide, sinking back against the sofa. It’s actually quite pleasurable, especially once my tastebuds have processed the sting. Mac might’ve dropped me like a hot potato, but now I sort of feel like one as the liquor permeates my bloodstream, giving my limbs that pleasantly heated and heavy sensation. I rub my lips together, relishing the almost butterscotch aftertaste. And whisky isn’t the only thing I contemplate. Mac is a complicated man, but his feelings aren’t unwarranted. I can’t imagine myself in his situation, probably because I can’t imagine myself as a man in the first place. And I’ve always loved being around kids. But I’m not sure how many men would respond in the way he has, turning his life on its head to make space for a child he knew nothing of.
This, in my book, makes him a good man. An honourable one. And one I shouldn’t get too attached to in any way, shape, or form.
I take our glasses to the kitchen with the intention of rinsing them and leaving them to drain but change my mind. One glass I do clean, but the other, I pour another measure of whisky in. Okay, two measures. Replacing the cork in the bottle with the pretty label, I open the pantry-style cupboard where I’d watched him pull it from. Along with the bottle of Russian vodka stashed in the freezer, this cupboard is teeming with bottles of booze. Bourbons, gins, fancy liqueurs—there’s just about a bottle of everything in here, all in varying states of consumption. I push the whisky into a space at the front, and in doing so, dislodge another bottle near the front, along with a packet of napkins. I catch the former just before it falls, and though my heart is in my mouth, I’m relieved it hadn’t hit my toes or, horror of horrors, smashed to smithereens and spilt everywhere. Bottles secured, I bend to pick up what aren’t actually napkins but a box of condoms.
A decidedly odd thing to keep in your kitchen. The box is open and not exactly full, so this box wasn’t delivered along with his groceries and stowed in a cupboard for later. Nope, I’d say these condoms have been stashed here for ease of use. I glance around the kitchen—the large island, high stools, coffee machine—and wonder what salacious tales they’d tell if they could talk.
Popping the box back as best as I can, I turn and run my fingers over the edge of the granite countertops. I bet one night with Mac would fix my virginity. In fact, I think after one night with him, I’d never be the same. What must it feel like to be the centre of his attentions? Would his power consume, or would it be thrilling to know I held some power over him, knowing he wanted me for my body? Knowing he craved me, too?