Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Come here.” She moves to cuddle next to me, and I wrap her in my arms. “I love you, Ramsey. That love is unconditional. Whatever happens, we go back to Willow River and live our life.” The uneasy feeling washes over me once more. I want to take all of her pain. I want to shake her parents and knock some fucking sense into them. Sick or not, if they’re cold and callous to her, we’re leaving. I won’t stand around and let them treat her that way.
They won’t stomp all over my heart.
I won’t let them.
“This is it,” Ramsey says as we pull into the driveway of her childhood home. “Pretentious, I know. My father is all about the show.” There’s a pain in her voice I’ve never heard from her before. Not even when she was telling me about her past. It’s this place; it brings all the pain back in color, and I’m moments away from turning this fucking rental around and driving us straight to the airport.
“Ladies, are we ready to get this over with?” Raymond asks from the back seat. A glance in the rearview mirror tells me he’s not looking forward to this either.
“Ramsey?” Carol asks.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” She reaches for her handle, and the rest of us follow suit. I meet her at the front of the car and lace my fingers through hers. I don’t look behind me, but I’m confident Raymond is giving Carol a similar show of support.
We reach the door and Ramsey knocks. Knocks. At her parents’ place. In the home she grew up in, she has to knock like a fucking stranger. The door swings open, and a man I recognize as Donald Smithfield stands before us. Ramsey pulled up his picture on his firm's website while we were waiting to catch our flight. He’s aged since that photo was taken, but his stance and cold eyes tell me he’s still a dick.
“How is she?” Ramsey asks.
“Come in.” His eyes flash to mine and then to our joined hands. They then flash behind me. “Carol. Raymond. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“You called me,” Carol says, her dislike for him evident in her tone. “Tell me, Donald, how did you know Ramsey was with us?”
He smirks. “She ditched her phone, but you were her last call. It’s not rocket science.”
“You’ve known where I was all this time?” Ramsey asks.
He scoffs. “Of course, I knew where you were. It’s a man’s job to keep track of all of his assets.”
My shoulders stiffen, and I squeeze her hand tighter than I should. I count backward from ten and then do it one more time to calm myself down. “She’s your daughter.” My voice is hard, my anger unmistakable.
He ignores me. “Your mother is upstairs. She’s been asking for you.”
“I want to see her.”
He nods. “She’s in her room.”
This prick doesn’t even share a room with his wife. Not that I blame her. I wouldn’t want to lie next to the bastard either, but then again, she's not much better letting her daughter suffer at the hands of her father.
“Ramsey, you know the way. Your friend and your uncle can follow me to the den.”
“I’m going with you,” I tell Ramsey.
“It’s okay, Deacon. We’ll go see my mother, and then we can go.” Ramsey’s eyes tell me a different story. She doesn’t want to be here any more than I do. She’s here to see her mother and get the fuck out.
I don’t like letting her go anywhere in this fucking house without me, but this is her show. I’m here. That’s what I keep reminding myself. He won’t hurt her while I’m here with her. I lean in and press my lips to hers. “Love you.” I whisper the words. Not because I don’t want him to know, but because my words are for her.
“Love you too.”
“Gentlemen.” Donald nods and turns, expecting us to follow.
I don’t move until Ramsey does. She links arms with her aunt, and they head up the spiral staircase. It takes everything in me not to chase after her.
“We’re here, Deacon. He’s not going to touch her,” Raymond says, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
I nod, and together we follow after Donald. “Can I offer you a drink?” he asks once we’re in the den.
“No,” Raymond and I say at the same time. I have to bite back my smirk. This fucker isn’t going to schmooze us.
“Suit yourself,” he says, pouring himself a generous glass of bourbon. He sits in a black leather wing-back chair, while Raymond and I both choose to remain standing behind the matching black leather couch. “You seem fond of my daughter.”
“If you weren’t such a prick, you’d already know that.” His eyes flare, and it’s obvious he doesn’t like to be called out.