Page 93 of Beat of Love
Richard’s lips thinned to a tight, straight line. “Fine. But Brandy, mark my words, youwillbe hearing from my lawyer.” He whirled away, without even saying goodbye to his children, stomped out the door, and down the veranda steps, leaving a shellshocked silence in his wake.
Olivia looked at her, her lower lip trembling. “We’ve lost Rafferty, haven’t we?”
That her Livvie’s first thought was about Rafferty and not Richard …
Brandy blinked rapidly, wanting nothing more than to collapse and sob her heart out. “I hope not.”
25
Tainted
That night …
The motor growled down to silence beneath him, a deep, throaty rumble that faded like a dying breath. He sat there for a moment, the engine ticking as it cooled, the weight of choices pressing down on him, like a heavy boot to the chest.
The building crouched behind the chain-link fence — a feral beast constructed of brick, rusted sheet metal, and gaping windows, waiting to consume him.
He kicked the stand down with his boot, metal hitting pavement with a dull thunk. The bike tilted into a familiar lean, the kind that always felt half-drunk, and very precarious.
Kinda like he felt now.
Teetering on the precipice, seeking an escape from the chaos rattling inside him.
He’s lived with scum —becamescum.
He swung his leg over, muscles stiff from tension. His body knew fucking well what his brain was toying with. And it was screaming at him to resist. To just get back on the fucking bike and ride like the demons of hell were behind him.
Because they were.
Once an addict, always an addict.
He took off his helmet and slung it over the handlebar, fingers lingering there for a beat, stalling time by not letting go. As if he knew once he did, all bets were off.
The air reeked of exhaust, motor-oil, burned rubber, and something else — the sweet allure of oblivion. It curled into his nose and sparked a fire in his spine. His mouth flooded, dry and wet at the same time, like he could almost taste the hit.
His jaw clenched.
God, he missed it.
Not the high. Not really.
Rather, it was the silence he craved.
The whiteout.
The way everything stopped hurting for just long enough to pretend he was whole.
Clean.
He’s tainted. Probably covered in filthy prison ink.
The burn spread from the base of his spine, up and across his back, rising with the stain of ink covering his back, his neck, his scalp. He scraped his hand through his hair, gripping tight, twisting. Twisting.
Tell me, Mister Druggie, what’s it like to fuck a woman pining for your look-a-like?
Was that true? Did she merely see his twin when she looked at him?
Everything in him screamed to walk across the forecourt.
