Page 110 of Whiskey Throttle
“Will you?”
Her voice trembles. Falling off again. Completely unsure.
“Will I what?”
“Hold me.”
It’s light. Weightless in volume. Heavy in yearning. I work my boots off, leaving dirt on her expensive rug. Another thing she’d fuss over if things were different. With her facing toward me, I round the other side of the bed. Slipping in behind her. Avoiding her dark eyes, her openness, and those tempting lips I want to kiss pain from.
I lie beside her. Not pressed against her. Not invading her space. Just close enough that she’s not alone. That this time, when the world caves in and the lights go out, someone stays.
Her breathing is uneven.
“You must think the worst of me, Hollister.”
She glances back, finds my arm, and places it over her waist. Reaching for me and sending different signals to my brain and cock. To distract the tingling bringing my balls to life, I speak again. Quiet and close to her ear.
“I don’t.”
She looks straight ahead, staring into space.
“How could you not? I sound like an unfit mother. Maybe I was. I’m sure of it.”
“You sound like you were young. With no support.”
I leave out the part of her bastard husband that doesn’t deserve to walk this earth after what he did to his own family.
“You had no one to turn to and didn’t know what to do.”
She frowns.
The only response I get.
I know she doesn’t believe me, finding them as excuses. One whispered to her son, who threw it right back, saying it wasn’t good enough. It’s a hopeless cycle that can’t be solved. Just an acknowledgement of what it was, loaded with mountains of hurt and apologies and a delicate thread of a promise to try again.
“You said he’d hate you. Instead, he hates me.”
“I wouldn’t call it?—”
She turns, sharp, cutting me in half with her venomous look. It’s a rally cry. I see it as her not being weak and wilting under the pressure of their relationship, but as a strength that she’s lived with heartbreak and still went on with her life.
“Don’t say he doesn’t. You saw it just as much as I did.”
I release a long sigh. Choosing my words carefully.
“I wouldn’t say hate. But anger, devastation, and heartbreak, yes. All those things. A mirror to you, actually.”
She nods faintly, but says nothing. Just stares past me into the shadowed corner of the room, like the memories are thickest there.
I shift closer, slowly. Let my hand rest more firmly across her middle. The soft dip of her waist warms beneath my palm. Her fingers find mine and squeeze not hard, but tight enough as if clinging to a lifeline.
“Not the only one who failed him, you know,” I murmur, voice low, threading into the dark like a confession. “We all did.”
“No,” she whispers, eyes still locked on the shadows. “No one failed him like I did. Maybe my ex.”
The quiet that follows is unbearable and hollow. An emptiness I don’t know how to fill. So I dust my lips over her shoulder. Her breath hitches, and her fingers flex in mine. She moves closer, but I stop kissing her. I’d love to be with her in that way. Love to make both of us feel far better than we do.
“I know this isn’t the time?—”
