Page 105 of What's Left of Us

My admission is on the tip of my tongue by the time he goes silent, but I swallow my words when he eventually says, “Sometimes, I think this job is going to kill me. I should have gone into a different field. The only thing keeping me here is the money and the chance at making a difference.”

Tell him,an inner voice urges. I part my lips, ready to add to his stressful day, and admit I can no longer contribute past the two hundred dollars that had been tucked away in the envelope from the library.

But I curl into his body, kiss his chest, and say the only thing I can. “It’ll be okay.”

I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.

Him or me.

I don’t think for long.

Next thing I know, he’s stripping off my nightshirt, cupping my breast, and putting his mouth over me. When he tells me to get on my knees, I do.

Because I don’t want to talk. To tell him the truth. To feel like I’ve failed again, all thanks to the man who gave me my last name.

Maiden name,I remind myself.

I am not Georgia Del Rossi.

And itwillbe okay.

One day.

I watch him undo his jeans and pull himself out, knowing he needs this control after a long day of not having any, of having to be on his best behavior after the last two complaints were made against him. He’s on thin ice and feeling it with each passing day when he comes home with another problem, another reason why I can’t add to the mess.

So, I wrap my hand around the base of him and take him in my mouth, hearing those four familiar purred words above me. “That’s my good girl.”

And long after we’re both naked and sated, and he’s passed out tangled in the sheets, I think about what I’m going to do next.

But I never have an answer.

Only more questions that eat away at me as I bury them deep, deep down, to try to pretend nothing is wrong.

My head turns to see the steady rise and fall of Lincoln’s chest, and I wonder what he’s dreaming about.

More than that, I wonder if the beautiful, naked liar beside me will ever tell me the truth or if I’m destined to love the kind of men who will always keep me bathed in the darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Lincoln/ Five Years Ago

After almost atwenty-eight-hour stint following a twelve-hour shift, two court subpoenas, a drug bust, and a meeting with the captain, bone-deep exhaustion settles in on my drive home. It takes driving over the rumble strip on the side of the road to snap me out of my wavering consciousness, reaching for the radio to turn up whatever station is playing to keep me awake.

“You’re listening to ninety-two point three, late-night rush hour. It’s now eight forty-five on Thursday, the twenty-second. If you’re just joining us, we’re doing a countdown to the top ten in today’s pop hits. Coming in at number three is—”

“Shit,” I hiss, slamming on my brakes and pulling over to reach for my phone from where it’s charging in the center console.

The twenty-second.

My wedding anniversary.

And the only thing I texted my wife about was that I was going to be late.

“Fuck me,” I murmur, swiping a palm down my face and googling florists near me. Most of them are closed, except for one twenty minutes away that’s supposed to close at nine.

The one piece of advice my father gave me when I told them I’d gotten married was to never forget an anniversary. Georgia didn’t want to make a big deal out of the first one because she didn’t think it counted. I made it a point to disagree. And now she probably thinks she was right the first time aroundbecause I’ve been so focused on building my portfolio for my BCI application that I didn’t think twice about what day it is.

I make it to the shop in twelve minutes as an elderly woman is sweeping the floor. It’s clear she wants to tell me to come back tomorrow, but my desperation must be obvious.

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