Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Jackson closes the door behind them. “I’m not sure I can afford this five-star hotel unless you’re offering the ‘friends and family’ discount.”
She giggles while dropping her purse onto a credenza. “I might be able to extend the ‘friends and family’ discount if you make coffee in the morning.”
“Deal.”
The awkward moments of silence have multiplied as the night’s progressed. Now, there’s an extra-long pause—a deafening silence between two idle bodies standing five feet apart.
It’s refreshing to see Frankie in her world. This older house is filled with antiques and painted wood trim. Creams, grays, and blues fill each room with splashes of pink and gold. Chandeliers and patterned upholstered furniture. It’s a classic beauty, just like Francesca Holter. But it doesn’t matter where they are or what they’re doing because it won’t erase what happened. There’s not enough beauty in the world to cover that kind of ugly.
“Well,” Frankie looks away first, “there are two bedrooms upstairs. You can—”
“I love you,” Jackson interrupts with a declaration that seems to knock her off kilter. “I didn’t come here to find my piano or see the fall foliage. I came here because I love you. And I miss you. And I need to know what happened the night of the fire. I can’t stop thinking about it.” He feels weak in his confession, but the women in his life have always been his greatest weakness and his greatest strength.
Frankie is no exception.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
FRANCESCA
I’m not in denial. I’m actively not acknowledging what happened that night. There’s a difference. Denial implies I think it’s untrue or not real. I know what happened is true and bone-chillingly real.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, forcing my gaze to his, compelling myself to actively acknowledge his pain. “I’m sorry you can’t stop thinking about it. But I need you to let it go. If I keep ripping off the bandage, it will never heal.” With a hard swallow, I search for the truest thing I know I can share without ripping open that wound and bleeding out. “I blame PTSD and alcohol for my brother blowing his brains out. I blame Molly for Steven losing his way. And I blame an awful reality on Lynn giving up. Every time I let myself relive that day, I’m one step closer to leaving this life.”
Jack winces. “Frankie …” My name breaks in half as it falls from his lips.
“I know you’re hurting, and that makes me hurt too. But if I’m okay, can’t you be okay?”
His Adam’s apple bobs, jaw clenched, eyes reddening. He’s constricting my heart, squeezing it so hard it feels like he’s trying to rip it apart one chamber at a time. “Ryn gave me everything. And I gave her everything. And that’s how we—”
“I’m not your wife,” I say in a voice I don’t recognize. Am I angry? Jealous? Hurt?
None of the above. I’m just being honest.
He bows his head, rubbing the tension from his neck. The waves of frustration are palpable and suffocating. “I cut off his fingers—”
“Stop.” I manically shake my head.
“One at a time …”
“Don’t.” The bandage tugs.
Pulling.
Taking flesh with it.
“I shoved my knife into his groin, and he—”
“Stop!” I cover my ears and continue to shake my head. A sob rips from my chest.
I see Archer above me—evil born of frustration and the misguided perception that a woman’s affection can be taken.
It can’t. It can only be given.
“I need this …” Jack lifts his gaze, face scrunched. “Because you were on your …” He chokes on his words, eyes bleeding with pain.
“P-please don’t …” I cover my mouth, releasing tears as unrelenting as this man.
“You were on your knees … naked. It’s not a wound that can heal. It’s a fucking disease. And it’s only going to spread if you ignore it. You won’t die today, but over time… it will kill you.”
“No …” My head won’t stop shaking. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s just being cruel. “W-why are y-you doing this?” I lean forward with a wave of nausea because I smell the pungent soap that clung to Archer after his shower. I feel his fingers between my legs.
“Fight me. Make my dick hard. You might enjoy it.”
Jack takes two long strides to hold my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him while I sob. “Frankie, tell me what he took from you.” His whole body vibrates, as if he’s one blink from falling apart with me. “It’s the only way I can give it back to you,” he whispers, kissing my tear-stained lips and every inch of my face. “Give me your pain.”
I can’t go there. Resting my hands on his chest, I push him away, stumbling back several steps. “No.” I sniffle, wiping my eyes while drawing in a shaky breath. “I don’t need this. I-I don’t need y-you to give me anything. You feel guilty.” I shake my head and wipe my nose. “Don’t. You, of all people, know that life is really fucking hard, and nothing worth saving comes without sacrifice. I …” Jabbing my finger into my chest, I swallow hard. “I decided to go down that dangerous road. I willingly sold my soul … offered it as a sacrifice for the greater good. And here I am, alive and moving forward. I have a job—a life. And I now know that you’re alive and reunited with your family. Can’t you just let me be happy for you? Happy for me?”