Page 164 of Misrule
“C’mon,” Mortician had ordered.
“No. He might need something.” The words were for pretense. They came automatically, unbidden.
“Motherfucker dick drunk anyway,” Mortician said. “He can’t do nothing.”
Roxy scowled. “Themotherfuckeris drunk,” she countered.
Nodding, Mortician sighed and his look softened. “I’ll be in the main room,” he said, then left her alone with Knox.
His face was flushed from the abundance of alcohol he’d consumed. Every now and then, a snore had escaped him, and she’d grinned.
After studying him while rooted to her spot, she’d sat on the bed before curling up against him. For a few stolen moments, she’d allowed herself to remember the intimacy they’d shared. He went to oncology checkups with her and enjoyed her healthy lifestyle. Food that was good for a motherfucker, generally wasn’t goodtothat motherfucker. Knox kept her spirits up when she missed some of her old favorites. When she’d stray to far away from her diet, he’d reel her back in.
In the evenings, he’d discuss cases with her, especially the crazy ones. Grinning, one in particular had come to mind. A man’s wife had gotten rid of the family parrot. Knox had been hired to track the bird down and interview him. The husband was sure the parrot had witnessed the woman’s infidelity and would tell all.
As it turned out, motherfucker was right on all accounts. The wife had been cheating and the bird talked his ass off. In the end, Knox had reunited the bird with the poor husband.
Roxy chuckled at the silliness of it all, wishing for those times again and knowing they were gone.
“Roxanne,” Knox had mumbled. “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
The miserable words dug deep into her. She’d already forgiven him. She just couldn’t forget because she couldn’t trust Knox not to resort to the same tactics whenever they argued. He looked down on everything she liked, including tattoos and motorcycles. They’d never find a gray area.
Kissing the base of his neck, Roxy had gotten out of bed. She hadn’t even taken her shoes off. At the door, she’d turned and taken a last look at him, then she’d found Mortician and told him she was ready to leave.
Now, her long, sleepless night had finally drifted into morning. She was dragging her ass, just as she had since she’d awakened. Not even her coffee and chicory had stimulated her tired brain. She needed to get herself together.
Members would be stopping in soon, on their way to work for coffee, breakfast, gossip, or the smorgasbord.
She had to get a move on. She flipped on the lights, righted a chair that must’ve been knocked over and forgotten about, then adjusted the thermostat to remove the chill from the air.
It didn’t take long for her to start the coffee to brewing. Afterwards, she headed to gather what she needed for breakfast. Today’s menu would be simple: scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast.
In the midst of cracking eggs and allowing the contents to fall into a big bowl, she saw Knox sprawled on the ground, heard the awful words he’d spoken to her, and felt the weight of his great-great grandmother’s ring, back on her finger to save his life.
She paused and held out her hand. The center diamond sparkled and gleamed, the brilliant appearance a direct contrast to her hollow feeling.
Knox had honored her with it. If he felt as he did about her and the prenup and so many other things that had shocked her, why would he give her a Harrington family heirloom?
Drawing in a deep breath, she leaned against the butcher block table, so fucking angry with him. However, she was even more hurt, and very afraid. If she made one misstep, Mortician and Outlaw would discover the truth, and kill Knox.
Picking up another egg, she tapped it on the table, then opened it along the fissure line and allowed the contents to drop into the bowl. There was a comfort to the rhythm she adapted. Yet, her problems—her heartache—lurked just beneath the surface of the monotony.
Just as she cracked the twenty-fourth egg, her last for the morning, the door swung open and Knox stepped in.
He resembled an extra for The Walking Dead with his pale skin and green undertones, hideous gashes and bruises, red-rimmed eyes, and slow walk.
“You are wearing it,” he breathed, staring at the ring.
Fuck, but he was banged up.
“I have no choice,” she said, refusing to comment on his appearance.
“There is always choice, Roxanne.”
She shrugged, grabbed the whisk she’d set out on the table, and started whipping the eggs together. “A fucking pity your ass didn’t choose right and kept your goddamn mouth shut.”
“I’m sorry,” Knox told her.
