Page 60 of Boy of Ruin
And he isn’t watching her like he should, if those photos are any indication.
He’s giving her the fucking freedom she wants.
I slam my fist on the dresser, snatch up the straw, rail the fucking line and drop the straw, closing my eyes, swallowing down the bitter taste of coke as my pulse picks up speed.
There’s a soft knock on the door and I flinch.
Clearing my throat, I manage to call out, “Yeah?”
“Morning,” Julie says, her voice quiet. “Breakfast is ready, if you’re hungry.”
I’m fucking not. “Thanks,” I call out. “I’ll be down soon.”
I hear a baby cooing, making some kind of blubbering sound, and that tightness in my chest knots heavier.
“Okay. No rush,” Julie offers, then I hear her walk away, the creak of the stairs as she heads down.
She’s a lot more mellow than she used to be, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s because she thinks this visit may be something more than it is.
I didn’t tell her about Sid.
About the marriage.
About any of it.
Because it’s not her fucking business. The more people mad at my wife, the more I worry. I just let it go. Kept another secret for her.
It didn’t matter.
It does now, I guess.
Swearing under my breath, I run my hand through my hair, then drop it to my knee, palm up.
That fucking X.
Sid’s X.
My wife’s fucking brand.
I stand, swearing again, then walk to my bag, tie the bandana around my throat and pull out my clothes and get dressed, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to find here when Julie doesn’t know shit.
I should’ve stayed at the other house last night. Shouldn’t have stayed in this one, with both of these girls I’ve fucked here, but it doesn’t matter.
O and I will be on the road later today, headed out.
I’ll call Mav, see if there’s anything specific he wants me to look into. Otherwise, I need to get back to North Carolina.
Even if she doesn’t want me right now, I have to be closer to my wife, and I know the fucking little compound he’s keeping her at.
When I’m brushing my teeth in the guest bathroom, I glance at my reflection, right above my dark blue eyes, bloodshot and dry.
There’s no scar on my pale skin.
But there’s one on hers, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
That night I know she decided to leave.
It takes everything I have not to drive my fucking fist into the mirror. Everything not to open up the medicine cabinet and fucking swallowing everything in it.
