Page 11 of Queen of Ruin

“I’ll have to look it up to be sure, but we’re talking at least four figures a month.”

It feels like the air has been pushed out of my lungs, and I desperately fight to keep the tears at bay, but I’m tired. I’m tired of swimming against the current. This just might be the last straw that sinks me.

“What do you want me to do?” Maria inquires cautiously.

I lean over my lap just trying to catch my breath; my lungs feel like they’re caving in on me.

“Evan?” Maria prods.

I manage to sit up and when I look around the plane, I can’t help but notice the opulence – from the elegant lighting, the bar, the TVs, and the leather seats. It looks like you could be in someone’s living room instead of a plane.

“Have Dr. Rakesh fill the prescription.”

“Your grandmother is so lucky to have you.”

“Thank you, Maria,” I work to keep my voice even. “I’ll talk to you later, I have to go.”

I hang up the phone quickly before she can say anything else and hold my head in my hands. The book sits in my lap and I stare at the cover, a picture of the Seine in Paris that blurs with each drop of my tears.

“We’re almost ready to taxi, just waiting for clearance,” the stewardess interrupts my thoughts.

I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes and spring from my seat. “I can’t leave,” I say panicked, hoping it’s not too late to get off.

“I’m sorry, ma’am?” she asks, confused.

“I have to go.” I leave the book on the seat in a rush as I make my way to the door. “I’m so sorry.”

4

FUCKING HEMINGWAY

DARREN

I take the stairs two at a time, and when I get to the top, I hear a slosh of water come from the guest bedroom. She didn’t leave but she was going to, and the thought has me all tied up in knots.

Standing in the doorway, I take a deep breath and peer inside, noticing how it looks like a guest room – nothing personal of Evangeline’s, not even a scented candle or a book of poetry on the nightstand to show that she lives here.

My faded Georgetown t-shirt lays rumpled on the bed as if she’d slept in it. I bring it to my nose and it smells like her – vanilla and cherry blossoms – no sign of my expensive cologne. The thought of her sleeping in my shirt does things to me… wicked things.

The ensuite door is cracked open enough to see the steam on the mirror. I push it open, noticing her hair pulled into a bun with a few wet strands clinging to the side of her neck as she rests her head on the edge. Bubbles annoyingly obscure everything aside from a kneecap that crests the surface. I’ve never been so mesmerized by such a simple sliver of exposed skin before in my life, but when it dips under the bubbles, I find myself desperately disappointed.

All the anger I had felt before slowly ebbs away – not completely, but enough for me to enter the room. She doesn’t seem shocked by my presence. She just looks at me with an annoyed expression that I find tempting. It’s the way her eyes narrow into an almond shape and her lips press together to form an alluring pout that pulls out the dark desire from deep within me. Even the anger and the hurt that’s still under the surface does little to suffocate the need for her.

I shouldn’t want her.

But I do.

I want her in a way that defies reason when I should hate her – when the pain inside of me turns into a ball of jealous hate for any man that has touched her – even if that man was my father.

“Did Alistair bail you out, or was he in there with you?” she muses sarcastically, and pushes her hand through the bubbles to grip the edge.

I cross my hands over my chest with my feet apart and stare down at her, the bubbles now barely covering her breasts. My eyes track the movement of her foot as she lifts it out of the water and places it on the edge near the faucet.

“Fortunately, I wasn’t in jail, but so nice of you to care, wife.”

“No one said anything about caring.” She turns away, and I can’t help but smile at the defiant expression on her face.

“Not sure I believe that, but…”

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