Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
By ten o’clock Saturday night, I’ve stress cleaned the whole house, baked Harley’s favorite cake, and taken an extralong shower. Still, my belly is churning with this sense that I need to be doing something . . . somewhere . . . I’m not sure what, but it’s definitely not lying in bed, mindlessly watching reruns.
Riiing.
My phone’s ringtone is intentionally loud and attention-grabbing, a choice for when Harley is gone because I do not want to ever miss a call from him.
Unfortunately, it’s not my son’s name on the caller ID. It’s Tyler’s. And it’s not just a regular call. He’s FaceTiming me.
I wish I could not answer it, but what if he’s calling about Harley? Or if Harley wants to tell me good night? Those possibilities are enough to force my hand.
But first, I make sure my nightgown is covering everything it should and also tuck the blankets around my chest. I take a deep breath to settle my gut, and only then do I hit answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, babe.”
“Is Harley okay?” I rush to ask, worry about his already-better ankle popping into my mind.
Tyler sighs, his brows furrowing in annoyance. “He’s fine. Went to bed about an hour ago. Probably crashed out asleep by now.”
He doesn’t know? He didn’t check?
Of course he didn’t. I was always the one to do that. Still am.
“What’s wrong then?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call to see what you’re up to?”
He’s checking to see if Dominic is here. I know that with complete certainty. “Unless it pertains to Harley, what I’m doing is none of your concern.”
“Don’t be like that, babe. You know that what you do will always be my business. I miss you.” His lips lift into the flirty smile that used to give me butterflies. Now, it just makes me nauseous.
Why did I used to think his possessiveness was sweet?
I’m ashamed to admit it, but the answer is daddy issues. After having a father who left not only my mother, but me, regularly and without a second thought, meeting a man who was obsessed with me felt like the biggest salve to my traumatized soul. It took a long time to recognize that Tyler’s possessiveness was more akin to ownership, and his desire for complete enmeshment between us was just as harmful as my dad’s absence had been.
“I don’t miss you. Now if there’s nothing else we need to discuss about Harley . . .”
I’m about to hang up, my finger hovering over the X-filled red circle on the screen, but I’m too slow. Tyler pulls his phone back, revealing more of himself. “I know one thing you’re missing.”
He has his dick out. His erect penis, with his free hand wrapped around it, leisurely jacking himself to my face on his screen.
I remember the first time I saw him naked. We’d both been barely eighteen, and in my completely unexperienced immaturity, I’d laughed nervously, which had hurt his feelings. But over time, I learned not to laugh anymore. He always wanted me to tell him how big he was (as if I had anything to compare to), would groan in my ear that I felt good wrapped around him, and liked to brag about the veining along his shaft, which he thought made his penis look powerful and was supposed to feel good to me, though I could never actually feel it inside me.
It’s a penis I haven’t seen in years and did not want to see tonight. Or ever again.
I recoil instantly with a sound of shocked horror, and he chuckles at my reaction. “We had our problems, but one thing we were always good at was making up after a fight. You know you want it, Briar. You wanna suck me off to show how sorry you are, don’tcha?”
Every word is accompanied by an up and down stroke.
I gag, not because I want to service him, but at the disgusting thought of doing that again. Belatedly, I push the red circle and end the call. The feeling of violation is immediate, followed by the shoulda, coulda, woulda self-lecture.
I should’ve . . . not answered his call.
I could’ve . . . hung up sooner.
I would’ve . . . preempted what was obviously a planned maneuver on Tyler’s part.
My phone rings again. Tyler’s name appears on the screen and I hit decline.
It rings again. Decline.
He’s getting off on this, probably literally. Harassing me, seeing my name on his screen even if I don’t answer, and knowing that I can’t help but think of what I just saw . . . all turn-ons for him.
He calls again and again. Four times, five, then six and seven. I don’t even hit decline, and start ignoring the calls instead, leaving the phone face down on the bed.
But my skin crawls as my irritation grows.
On the eighth ring, I decide enough is enough. I answer with a curt, “Leave me alone unless you’re calling about Harley.”