Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Her hands go down as she opens her eyes, and her head turns back to look at me. I can see the fear written all over her face, and I’m expecting the worst answer. I’m not expecting the answer to knock me right to my core. “Wouldn’t be the first time a man put his hands on me.”
Chapter Eighteen
Autumn
I stand here in the dark, shaking like a leaf on a windy day when the storm is rolling in. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would come home and find him waiting for me. The anger rolling off him like I’ve never seen before, and I’ve seen him be fucking angry. “Did you fuck him?” He gets off the couch and makes his way to me. Standing in front of me, his body tight, his face comes so close to mine that I can feel him breathing on me when he roars out, “Did you fuck him?” On reflex, I turn my head to the side and hold up my hands, waiting for something to happen. My eyes are shut tight for a couple of seconds when he whispers, his voice cracking, “Did you think I was going to hit you?”
My hands go down as I open my eyes, and my head turns back to look at him. My heart pounds in my chest so hard it’s a miracle I’m not having a heart attack. There is anguish on his face as he asks me the question, but is he ready for the answer I’m about to give him? Am I ready for what is to come next? “Wouldn’t be the first time a man put his hands on me.”
His face pales as he takes a step back, as if I just struck him. “What the fuck?” His words are a whisper.
I don’t even notice the shaking has not stopped. I don’t realize anything standing here in front of this man who has made it a living hell for me for the past eight years. The man who hurt my soul, he just didn’t pick up his hand to do it. He did it with his words and by turning his back on me. “Shocked?” I ask him, my shoulders going back as I stand in front of him. The man who was kind, who was caring, who if I was having a bad day would go out of his way to make me smile. The man who will never see me as anything other than the woman who ruined his life. He just stares at me, his eyes moving back and forth, his mouth still open in shock. “The first time Waylon hit me was in this room.” I can’t believe I’m telling him this secret, a secret I’ve buried deep inside me. “It was after we had dinner at one of his parents’ fundraisers. Apparently, I wasn’t enthusiastic enough. He grabbed my arm so tight and twisted it, I thought it was going to pop out of its socket.”
“Autumn.” His hands go to his hair, and he pulls it in his own hands.
“He blamed it on the alcohol, saying that he was drunk.” I shrug. “I was naive. What could I do?” I’m not asking him to answer this question since I’ve been asking myself this for the last eight years. “He was Waylon Cartwright, his parents were the most influential people of the town, and I was the daughter of a widower, who was running a family business that was successful, but we were not Cartwrights.” I swallow down the bile that wants to come up, but I’m doing this. “You were right,” I say softly, “I didn’t kill them but, in the end, it’s because of me they died.” The air in the room goes still. “That night, the night of the accident.” I watch his face, like stone. “I asked him to open the door to the cabin so I could go to the bathroom. He was already agitated because of the fight he was having with his parents about him not doing anything with his life. And, of course, I was to blame for this since I was working with my brother and father. Again, I was making him look bad. He followed me into the bathroom, and I looked at him and begged him not to drive. Told him I would drive.” The scene plays over in my head. “He told me to shut the fuck up, no one was asking me. He took my head in his hand.” I hold the side of my head he gripped. “Fisted my hair in his hand, and then proceeded to knock it against the wall”—my hand drops from one side as the other one comes up to touch the place where I had the stitches—“so hard that I felt the burn as the skin tore open. I knew I would need to go to the doctor. I also knew I would have to come up with another story about it. I also knew that was the last time he would ever put his hands on me.” Charlie puts his hands on his knees as he hisses out, his breathing coming as if he just sprinted five miles without stopping. “I don’t think he would have fought me on it since the sex had dried up, as he said. Obviously, then he told me he didn’t know why he put up with me since I wasn’t even good at fucking. Which is also why he was constantly going on trips with his brother, so he could get his frustration out.”