Page 45 of Tear Me to Pieces
I can’t.
“Bad is relative.” I turn the words he offered me earlier back his way. “So is good.” I slide the pieces of toast I topped onto the plates. “I know a lot of men who think they’ve done nothing but good in their life.” I meet Simon’s gaze. “And I’m willing to bet they’ve done more bad than you and your brothers could ever dream of.”
I’ve always known good and bad weren’t black and white. That the people who are the loudest about their goodness are often the worst. The craziest part is they don’t see it. They’re so blinded by judgment and righteousness, the only view they have is of their own pious perfection.
Simon’s dark gaze moves over me. “I think you greatly underestimate the things I’ve done.”
Maybe I do. Maybe the sheltered life I’ve lived has made it difficult for me to really grasp what he’s trying to tell me.
But I don’t think so. I don’t need a list of his indiscretions to know Simon’s wrong.
He’s not bad. Probably never was.
I know he likely came from the same fucked-up sort of childhood as everyone else on this block. For most of them—possibly all—survival was their only goal, and they’d attain it by any means necessary.
I would have too.
The night Lydia brought Simon, Christian, and Tate to save me, I was prepared to end a life. I was going to do whatever it took to survive. If that meant taking out my ex-husband or father, that’s what I would have done. At least tried to do. I might not have been successful, but I was going to give it one hell of a go.
So, while I might not get the full scope of Simon’s past, I do understand it better than he thinks I do.
And that’s why I step in close, wrapping my arms around his waist and holding tight. Offering reassurance. Acceptance.
Simon stiffens for just a second—probably from surprise—then his arms come around me, warm and strong and solid. I turn my head, resting my ear against his chest as I close my eyes.
He’s such a good man, and he doesn’t even know it. He’s kind and caring and warm and giving. He talks about how he feels and listens when I do the same.
I wish I knew the name of the woman who hurt him. She was an idiot to give him up. He would have been so good to her. He loved her son deeply. Probably still does. The pain on his face was clear when he spoke about the little boy. The longing. The regret. He would have been such a good dad.
My eyes open.
Simon would be an amazing dad. The kind who would always put his kids first. The kind who would work hard to give them a good life, both in material aspects and emotional ones.
The kind I want my own children to have.
I thought having a baby was out of reach for me, but maybe it’s not. Maybe Simon would be interested in an arrangement that could benefit both of us.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see Simon’s lonely. The longing in his eyes when he watches his brothers with their kids is obvious. He thinks no one notices how he tracks Christian’s movements when he spreads his hand over Lydia’s belly.
But I do. And I could give him what he’s wanting. What he thought he lost.
I can put what he thinks is out of reach close enough he can grab it with both hands.
16
SIMON
I turn awayfrom my own task to watch Myra working on hers. She’s been really fucking quiet all damn day. Even when we stopped for lunch, conversation was limited, and I’m not sure what to make of it. She’s not normally a super talkative person, but this goes beyond that.
And it’s starting to get to me.
“How’s it going?” I check on her for the hundredth time, hoping she’ll clue me in on what has her so quiet today. My mind has been running through the possibilities for hours, and it won’t be long before I start trying to fix imagined problems.
Starting with hunting Butch down and kicking his ass.
Myra didn’t seem too affected by his intrusion last night, but maybe now that it’s started to sink in, she’s starting to feel violated. As if the safety she finally found was nothing more than a smoke screen of wishful thinking.
If that’s the case, that bastard better run when he sees me coming.
