Page 15 of Three More Shots
Jesus.I almost just yanked down her yoga pants and fucked her standing up, and all she’s going to allow me to do is date her. No one busts balls like my girl. Fucking crazy how much this slip of a woman already owns me. “It’s going to go great.”
A blissful smile answers me when I begrudgingly back up. Taking on the role of her protector is a foregone conclusion. Figuring out how to let her think she has a say in the matter is the challenge. There’s no time to ponder the idea when the doorbell rings, and Ainsley flies out of her rocker toward the door. Luckily, my long legs catch up with her, and I press my hand against the cheap wood preventing her from pulling it open when she turns the knob. “Hold up, Ainsley. I need to check first.”
The simplest way to describe to both of them that I don’t want them to see Tank or his destruction, let alone my team cleaning that shit up. Neither of my girls need to be exposed to any more horror in their lives than they've already endured.
My edict doesn’t go over well, and rage fills Ainsley’s round face. She spins away and stomps across the matted beige carpet straight to the small easel in the corner. In one quick movement, she topples the tripod, kicking at the painted white legs for a few seconds before she starts ripping the paper off the canvas sheet by sheet.
Fuck.
The delivery can wait. I stride toward her to fix what I broke, but Corinne intervenes, blocking my path with her palms on my chest and using all of her diminutive force to hold me back.
“You’ve got to let her finish.”
I force my attention from the tornado to Corinne’s petrified face, lined with worry she doesn’t deserve. “What the fuck?”
“As long as she’s not hurting herself, you can’t intervene, or it will just escalate.”
That makes no fucking sense.
“Please?”
Remembering my promise to let her be the boss and follow her guidance regarding how to handle her child, I nod from her cracked plea. But it hurts more than I ever could have imagined. To watch Ainsley destroy what little they have. To see Corinne gutted with devastation from the pain she can’t fix for her daughter. To finally understand her world and how genuinely difficult her life – their life – is from something neither of them can control.
With a few last lobs of the paintbrushes across the room, Ainsley finally peters out and runs to the sofa, throwing herself face down and lying as still as death. I can’t lie. I’m shook. Fucked to the core that this kid, so excited over silly cartoons and loving to her doting mother, can turn on a dime and demolish her stuff so easily.
Usually, Corinne won’t look at me. Now that’s all she does, waiting to see how I react. Expecting me to freak out or preparing for me to walk out. But that shit’s not happening. All this has done is make me respect her more. “What do we do now?”
I swear to fucking god she almost winces with relief from my question. That I’m asking. That I’m still fucking here. That I’m trying to learn. “Let her rest. It’s self-calming for her.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you.” I hate her fucking sad smile. Trying to be brave for me when I’m sure she hates this for her child. “Can you get the door, please?”
Fuck, I forgot about the groceries. I whip out my phone and text Deuce to ensure all is well. With his confirmation, I twist the knob and find a young guy on the other side with four stuffed bags in his hands.
“Mr. Dominico?”
“That’s me.”
I grab my wallet and slide out a fifty for his trouble only to catch him staring at the mess behind me, frowning and analyzing and assuming shit he doesn’t know. Now I realize the shame she lives with, of others who judge what they don’t understand. I lift my hand with the bill balanced between two fingers to block his view and bring his attention back to what it should be. “Thanks.”
“Great. Yeah, thanks. Have a good evening.”
Grabbing two sacks, I exchange the money for her food and then accept the other two. Corinne tries to help, but that’s not happening. I turn and kick the door shut with my heel. “Come on. Let’s get these put away.”
She nods and gestures toward Ainsley, who’s turned her head toward us and watches us as she splays across the cushion. “The groceries are here. You can help us if you want.”
Shock spins my already pounding head when Ainsley eagerly scrambles up and races to the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door so hard, the papers covering the surface by small rainbow magnets flutter from her force, as if the last few minutes didn’t happen or don’t bother her. Corinne kneels down next to her, and they work in silence, unloading milk, eggs, and cheese while I set a box of Cheerios and a bag of pistachios on the counter, uncertain where they should go.
Ainsley scoots closer to Corinne as she tucks one plastic bag inside the other.
“I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“I know, sweet pea.” Corinne opens her arms, and Ainsley scrambles into her embrace, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder.
“I wanted to open the door.”
“I know you did. Steele was just trying to help you. He doesn’t know we usually open the door together. So don’t be mad at him, okay? He’s our friend.”
