Page 53 of Heartless Boss
I stroll back to the living room, sit next to Gia, and pull her into my lap. I inhale and exhale as I stroke her shoulder.
“I like your mom. She’s nice and quirky.” Gia lays her head on my chest and traces the fine hair sprouting from my hand.
“Are you serious about coming to our family cookout?”
“Y-yeah, of course.” She pauses. “Are you okay with sleeping with only one woman?” she asks out of the blue.
“Yeah, why do you ask?”
“You like to bone different women, and I want to make sure I’m enough.”
“I’m loyal, Gia. We might be casual, but I’m capable of keeping my dick in my pants. I’m not a sex addict.” I lean forward, nipping the shell of her ear. She smiles, but I didn’t miss that she frowned when I called us casual. She might not like that we are, but that’s the only thing I can offer her.
“But I’m not pretty,” she blurts out, and I tilt her chin to look at me and her whiskey eyes meet mine.
“Don’t ever say that shit again. You’re beautiful.” I wish she could see what I see in her. I wish she could see that she’s beautiful on the inside and out. More beautiful than any woman I’ve fucked. “There is no one who measures up to you. I would choose you over anyone.” She smiles at the words. “You want me to show you how beautiful you are?”
She nods and I lay her on the couch and spread her legs, eating her pussy until she can’t take it anymore.
Chapter Seventeen
Gunner
Ihate August twenty-eighth.
The day I was born. The day I did something I’m not proud of.
Today is that day.
Guilt and shame slices through my belly a million times, and the urge to drown myself in a pool of whiskey is as strong as the urge to drown myself in water after baking in the sun.
I’ve been sitting on Hannah’s leather couch in her office for a whole five minutes, and I’m ready to haul my ass out of here. My feet tap against the carpet, and I want to vomit all over my expensive loafers.
I don’t tell her the nightmares are back, and I don’t tell her I relive this very day. If I tell her everything, she’ll encourage me to join a fucking support group, and I’m not about to showcase my demons to a bunch of people I don’t know.
“Let’s take a stroll down memory lane. Do you remember what happened today?”
She smacks her gum loudly as she taps her black ballpoint pen on her notebook. Her jet-black dreadlocks fall down her shoulders, and she has on a creamy blouse and yellow pencil skirt.
“Will it help my PTSD?” I murmur.
“Yeah.” She writes something down on her pad. “Sometimes walking yourself through the event can help you remember. Some people who suffer from traumatic events only remember bits and pieces.”
“Blood everywhere, the smell of gun residue, Rylee banging on the door begging for Ellis to open up, and me ...” I close my eyes as tears tickle the insides of my lids. “Fleeing the scene.”
I grind my molars so hard that they throb, my chest tightens, and my heart beats rapidly as if I downed twenty drinks of Red Bull.
“It’s normal to experience the exact same emotions all over again.” Calm flickers through her eyes.
“I want to fucking drink until I’m unconscious,” I blurt out. “I want to sleep this day away.” I’m so fucking pissed I want to go apeshit on this furniture and punch a hole in the wall.
“Do you need a minute?”
I shake my head.
“If you want to go to sleep, then by all means do that, but don’t drink. It isn’t a good coping mechanism. How often are you drinking?”
“Four to five times a week.”
