Page 88 of Salvage Him
I drove back to my apartment and made it inside before collapsing at the door with tears running downmyface.
* * *
Harrison
The evening continued without anyone addressing Brooklyn's entrance or sudden exit. I tried to get Justin alone to asked him why she left, but I knew why. Confirming it would make me feel like a biggerasshole.
We left shortly after dinner. I was silent the entire car ride home despite Brittany's attempt to makeconversation.
I pulled up to her house and turned off theengine.
She reached for the doorhandle.
"Brittany. Hold up a second." I kept my hands on thewheel.
Shesettledback.
"I know we aren't anything serious, but I don't think we should see each other anymore." My tongue felt thick in mymouth.
"What's wrong, Sir?" she asked in a high-pitch little girl voice while rubbing my cock through mypants.
I cringed and pushed herhandaway.
"No. Don't do that. Don't call me Sir. Don't touch me. I don't want to be with you." It pained me to have this womantouchme.
I was a sick bastard. I wanted to hurt her because I wasted three weeks thinking about her when I could have been thinking aboutBrooklyn.
Tears sprung to her eyes, and shegroaned.
"You’re an asshole, Harrison Crawford." She wiped the tears offherface.
I nodded. Finally, something we couldagreeon.
Shedidn'tmove.
I waited her out. She sighed and opened the door. She slammedithard.
I watched her stomp to her front porch. She stopped atherdoor.
I turned on the engine anddroveaway.
I headed toward my apartment. My car detoured on it own to my newhouse.
I stepped into the wood frame in the foyer and leaned against one of the support beams. When I closed my eyes, the finished house appeared inmyhead.
It smelled like Brooklyn. I imagined her walking the halls, her bare feet slapping on the hardwood. She was everywhere—in the walls, the floors, the molding—her taste touched everysurface.
When I opened my eyes, the home felt empty. I built it for us, but it hurt to step foot in here knowing she would never enjoy itwithme.
I walked out back to the workroom. While the second floor was a frame, the first floor was nearlyfinished.
A strange chill ran across my back as I opened the door. I ran my hand along the wooden workbench. It needed more sanding. The bench ran down bothsides.
The guys help me move my equipment in a few days ago, but it sat againstthewall.
On the main table sat the stools for Brooklyn's game room bar. I etched small lotus flowers into the corner of each stool. Just a little signature piece that I knew she would love, but her husband would nevernotice.
I eyed the wooden chair in the middle of the room. I approached it, stalked over to it. I ran my hand over the smooth wood on the back and ontheseat.
