Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Fuck them. Fuck Emma. Fuck everyone.
If I find out who gave her my number, I’ll snap the fucker’s neck. I shake my head, hoping the movement will make the anger and resentment disappear, but of course it doesn’t. Logically, I know none of this has to do with my brothers. They aren’t to blame, but I’m hurting, and I can’t seem to stop myself from hurting everyone else around me.
I open the text and stare at it.
Unknown: There’s no reason we can’t talk now. Please, Kade. There is so much we need to discuss.
I grit my teeth. It’s always the same message.
Does she know what he told me? How could she?
I drop the phone onto the mattress to stop myself from responding.
I suppose it’s possible that Saint told Allie, but I don’t think she would’ve. It’s not Saint’s story to tell, and while I’m not a fan of what Calder put us through to keep her alive, I can admit she might be the only decent person in this family, so it’s unlikely she said something.
Plus, Allie and her mom haven’t been on super-great terms, according to the surveillance I did before Roman’s death. I doubt that’s what’s happening here. I haven’t responded to a single message. As far as Emma knows, she’s reaching out to me, but I have no clue what she wants. But let’s be real. She knows that I know. She knows I’m ignoring her and avoiding the subject. Otherwise, she wouldn’t keep texting.
War rages inside me. On the one hand, fuck her. I don’t owe her anything, and nothing she says can change the past. But on the other hand, everything I know about the situation was told to me by Roman—a man who was a pro at twisting shit up so it could fit inside his warped mind. Who knows, maybe he lied to me. Maybe this was his last “fuck you.” The thought makes me want to bring him back to life just to kill him again.
The piece of shit might be dead, but he’s still haunting me. His memory. His voice. It’s in my head. Under my skin. Killing him didn’t make him disappear; it made him bigger, louder.
As much as I hate to accept it, I know what he told me was true. I can feel it in every breath I take. I fall back against the pillows and stare up at the ceiling.
I need to talk to Emma and hear her side of the story. Not that I want to. I’m so bitter and angry over the entire situation, I’m not sure I’d give a shit about anything she says right now. Dragging a hand over my face, I feel the stubble I haven’t bothered to shave in days. Now that I think about it, I don’t smell all that great, either. Time is a blur. I don’t remember the last time I ate. The last time I showered.
Is this rock bottom? As low as I can get?
No, it can’t be, because I still have my freedom. At least, physically.
Inside, though? I don’t think I’ll ever be free. I force myself into the bathroom, going through the motions of shaving and showering. Normally, I’d feel better after a shower, but now, there’s nothing. Just the same pit of despair and rotting anger. I’m not even surprised. Maybe I don’t deserve to be happy, to find my way back to life again?
This isn’t you. A tiny voice whispers inside. But isn’t it? I mean, was that version of me from before ever really real? Do I even know who I am anymore? This is too much to contemplate without caffeine coursing through my veins.
By the time I’m dressed and ready to go, it’s already early afternoon. Shit needs doing, and the rest of the family is off doing it while I’ve been trying to turn off my brain. Pathetic. I can hear my father’s voice.
“Failure. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
I leave my room and walk to the kitchen for coffee. The house is quiet, and it’s weird. I keep thinking Roman will pop up around the corner. Calder would say it’s just PTSD.
Once I’m in the kitchen, I find a half-full pot of coffee and pour myself a cup. Bringing the mug to my lips, I take a drink and nearly spit the lukewarm liquid out. Nasty. If I wanted an iced coffee, I’d go to the coffee shop in town that Allie loves and order her stupid iced white mocha bullshit. Annoyance ripples through me at how easy it is for her to pop into my mind. For me to remember the little things about her. Like how she liked her coffee. Sometimes I wish I could forget how much she means to me, how much our time together means.
I place the cup in the microwave and nuke it for a bit, then pull it out and take a sip to test the temperature. Perfect. I take another drink, downing half the cup. The quick hit of caffeine on my empty stomach makes me sharper. I finish the mug and set it in the sink before walking to the foyer. The house is a ghost town, and I stop dead in my tracks on my way out.