by Cassia Leo
“What? That’s… I don’t remember any of that.” I looked down at my legs and arms again.
The sleeves of my green hoodie were still pulled up the way they were when I was rinsing off in the tub. When I tugged the right sleeve down, a dark stain stretched out before me from where it was hidden between the folds.
“Is that… blood?” I whispered, my breathing quickening. “Whose blood is that?”
Dylan glanced into the corridor again. “You want me to close the door so we can switch tops? Here. Take my T-shirt.”
Before I could protest, Dylan shut the door and pulled off his white and black The Weeknd T-shirt. I quickly pulled off my hoodie and handed it to him, then I tugged on his shirt. It was warm and smelled crisp, a little like Jack’s aftershave.
I gasped as a thought suddenly occurred to me. “Where’s Boomer?”
Dylan’s eyes widened as he pushed up the sleeves of my hoodie. “Oh, shit! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. Boomer’s at home alone.”
“You have to go check on him. He’s not used to Isaac being gone,” I insisted.
He nodded. “Will you be all right without me?”
I smiled at his concern. “Yeah, of course.”
He flashed me a weak smile. “I know shit is probably about to go down with you and Jack. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything at all, okay?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “So, is that everything that happened after I blacked out?”
Dylan winced at my question. “No, but… Well, I think Jack might be even more upset because… while they were wheeling Isaac toward the ambulance, he said he loved you.”
“What? That can’t be true.” I chuckled nervously. “You’re joking, right?”
He shook his head. “He had this sort of glazed look, like the lights were on but nobody was home. So you might be able to just chalk it up to hysteria,” Dylan continued, glancing at the doorway again before he whispered, “But he definitely said ‘I love you, Laurel.’”
Chapter 29
Jack
The ride back to our house was fifty-eight minutes of ugly, seething silence. Only one other time in my life had I wanted to hurt someone as badly as I wanted to rip that fucking leatherneck to shreds. I didn’t care if he was gasping his last fucking breath, he was either shaved-Britney insane or terminally stupid if he thought I was going to let him get away with what he did.
Laurel’s body tensed as we turned onto our street. As I pulled the SUV into the garage, she paused for a long moment with her hand poised on the door handle, then she finally shook her head and shoved the door open. I didn’t watch her go inside. I couldn’t look at her right now.
I walked out to the black SUV on the curb and sent Gustaf, Wendell, Rich, and Matt home for the rest of the week. Then, I headed inside and closed the garage door behind me.
I couldn’t get the images out of my mind. The way Laurel reacted to seeing me trying to restrain that fucker, I thought she was kidding at first. I couldn’t imagine my wife, my pixie, in a state of utter panic over another man. But she wasn’t kidding.
And everything happened so fast, everything was so chaotic, I didn’t feel I could blame her. Until I had to restrain her to keep her from following him into the back of the ambulance.
But when I heard him say those words…
I never thought of Laurel as the type of person who would betray me like this. My stomach burned with anger and guilt as I thought of how I had wanted to confess that I had been lying about wanting a baby.
Was my lie worse than her deceit?
I didn’t know. And, at this point, I was too fucking angry to care.
As I entered the laundry room, she stood in the hallway and watched as I approached. “How long?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said as I stepped into the hallway. “I talked to Dylan and he said Isaac said something to me while I was blacked out. I have no idea why he would say that.”
I shook my head as she walked backward toward the kitchen. “How long, Laurel?”
She narrowed her eyes at me and turned around. “Is there an accusation somewhere in there?”
“How long have you been fucking him?” I said, still maintaining an even tone.
She shot me a prickly glare. “Jesus Christ. You really think I would do something like that to you? You don’t know me at all.”
I laughed as I followed her toward the kitchen. “That’s some fucking irony for you. You’re telling me I don’t know you when you’re the reason I don’t know you. What else have you been hiding from me?”
She snatched a glass out of the cupboard and poured herself some water from the pitcher in the fridge. “Why don’t you tell me? What the fuck was Matt doing with the boxes in my mom’s garage?”
“How about you answer my question before you ask your own?”
“Why? What’s the matter? You can dish it out but you can’t take it? Can’t bear to hear someone questioning your crystal-clear rationale?”
I nodded, always impressed with how good she was at the War of Words. “Take a look in the mirror, baby, because you’re the one who wrote me a fucking goodbye letter and left before I even had a chance to respond. Then, you moved an hour away from me and fucked another man.”
“I didn’t fuck Isaac!”
I snatched the glass out of her hand and hurled it at the wall. “Don’t you fucking say his name.”
Her nostrils flared as she glowered at me. “Why? What are you going to do if I say his name? Gonna add wife-beater to your Professional Asshole resumé?”
“You sure didn’t waste any time adding adulteress to your Shitty Wife resumé.”
She drew her hand back, preparing to slap me.
I caught her wrist in my hand. “Does this make you a husband-beater? Or do you still not understand the concept of irony?”
“Not everyone can be a genius prick like you, Jack.”
I laughed. “This genius prick is the only prick that can give you multiple orgasms,” I said, twisting her arm behind her back as I pushed her against the counter, pressing my hips into hers.
“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head as she pushed her free hand against my chest.
My mouth hovered over her lips as my gaze locked on hers. “Don’t what? Don’t touch my wife?” I slid my hand under her T-shirt and seized her tit.
“Don’t do this, Jack. We can’t ignore this. We have to talk about what happened,” she said, but her muscles were getting slack. Her resolve already weakening.
She could kiss or fuck a hundred men and she’d still never get me out of her system. Because no matter how angry or hurt she was, nothing would change the fact that I owned her soul. And I was going to make certain she would never forget that.
I let go of her wrist and took a step back. “This isn’t yours,” I said, tugging the bottom of the white T-shirt she was wearing.
“It’s Dylan’s.”
“I don’t give a fuck whose it is,” I replied, then I reached up, grabbed the collar, and tore it in half in one swift motion. “You can lose this, too,” I said, grabbing the cups of her bra and ripping it open.
She gasped and looked down at her bare tits. “Jesus Christ, Jack.”
I knelt on the floor and pulled her leggings and panties down. Placing a soft kiss on her Cesarean scar, I looked up at her, waiting for her to tell me no. But she was quiet as a mouse, her eyes hooded with lust.
I traced my fingertips up the inside of her creamy thigh, watching with great satisfaction as goose bumps sprouted all over her taut skin. When I reached her center, I smiled as I slid three fingers inside her, relishing the shock on her face. She gripped the edge of the counter to brace herself, closing her eyes in ecstasy as I swept her wetness forward, using it to swirl my thumb over her spot.
She was my little mechanical toy. Always yielding to my commands, I thought as I rubbed her swollen clit. All I had to do was touch her and she did whatever I wanted
. She’d be whatever I needed.
I mentally tried to distance myself from her. As I traced slow circles around her clit, I imagined winding her up. Tick. Tick. Tick. Then, I watched her unspool before me, body trembling as she gave in to her unquenchable need to be touched by me. And only me.
She would never feel this way about anyone else. She could try, but I would never be out of her system.
I fucked her with three fingers, my hand sliding easily through the warm pool of pleasure between her legs. When she began to moan, I removed my hand and grabbed her by the waist to lift her onto the counter. Yanking off her boots and clothing, I spread her legs and smiled as she leaned back, her fingers splayed across the marble countertop as she willed her body to me.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked her as I massaged her clit.
With her head leaned back so far I could only see the underside of her chin, she begged. “Make me come, Jack. Please.”
She couldn’t fucking get enough.
I spread her flesh and took a long lap along her slit with my flattened tongue. She tasted musky and faintly metallic. I couldn’t see the blood, but it was there. And it wasn’t the first time I’d eaten her while she was on her period. I’d earned my red wings many years ago. Yet somehow, it was better this time, knowing I was going to leave a very lasting impression.
When she’d come at least twice, that glorious pussy clenching, begging for my dick, I slid on the condom. I didn’t care if the sight of it hurt her feelings. I wanted to make her ache with regret.
Wrapping my arm around her waist, I lifted her off the counter and drove my cock into her as if my life depended on it. And in a way, it did.
When there’s nothing left to save of your broken marriage, that’s when there’s nothing left to lose.
As I carried her to the bedroom, I slid her up and down on my dick like a fucking toy. When I got to the bedroom, I tossed her onto the bed, the sound of her throaty laughter made me rock hard. As I stood over her, my pixie spread her legs for me, inviting me to take her anyway I wanted her. I stared at her for a while, making her wait for it.
“Fuck me, Jack,” she said, her voice hoarse with greedy lust.
I rolled her over roughly, smacking her ass as I pulled her up onto all fours. Grabbing her waist, I yanked her backward, my head falling back in pure fucking ecstasy when I was balls-deep inside her. I smacked her ass again. I was getting so fucking high on the sound of her screams.
“Harder,” she begged.
I pounded her with such fury that she shrieked with each brutal thrust. Though it was clear she was crying out in pleasure, I tried to imagine they were cries of pain.
I loved her. I loved her so fucking much. But right now, all I wanted was for her to hurt as much as I was. I wanted to ruin her, to shatter her into a million fucking pieces.
I wanted to leave her heart unrecognizable to anyone but me.
As my cock slid in and out of her, I used my thumb to massage her other entrance while she rubbed her clit. The smack of skin on skin went on much longer than it usually did without the condom, allowing her to orgasm a third and fourth time. It was an hour-long hate fuck that she would not soon forget.
She would be begging for more very soon, but her pleas would go unanswered.
I retreated to the bathroom to throw out the condom, take a piss, and wash up. When I came back, Laurel was still lying on her belly, trying to catch her breath but clearly satiated. I immediately entered the closet and grabbed a pair of her skinny jeans and her orange OSU Cascades hoodie.
Exiting the closet, I tossed the clothes onto the bed and went straight to my side of the bed.
“What’s this?” she said, turning onto her back and holding up the jeans.
I looked down at her and said the four words I had been dreading since the moment Laurel left me two months ago.
“I want a divorce.”
She propped herself up on her elbows and stared at me. “What?”
I bent over, my heart pounding as I grabbed her face and looked her in the eye. “Pay very strict attention because I am not going to repeat myself.” I let go and stood up straight as I looked down at her. “I. Want. A. Divorce.”
Get Seed (Evergreen Series #2).
More swoony and angsty books to tide you over at cassialeo.com/books.
SEED
Evergreen Series #2
Part 1
PLANTING THE SEED
“It isn’t true unless at least one person believes it.”
Prologue
Laurel
Pulling on my bathrobe, I stumbled my way downstairs. I found my phone on the dining table, next to four empty bottles of prosecco and six empty bottles of beer. The sickly sweet smell of alcohol permeated the entire bottom floor of the house.
I snatched my phone off the table and breathed through my mouth as I got myself a box of crackers and a glass of water. Heading back upstairs, I took one careful sip of the life-giving liquid and waited a moment to make sure it wouldn’t come right back up.
When I was satisfied the gurgling in my stomach was mostly benign, I slipped beneath the covers in my bathrobe and opened the Postmates app on my phone. I placed my Walgreen’s order and put the delivery instructions in all caps: LEAVE THE ORDER IN MY MAILBOX. DO NOT KNOCK OR RING DOORBELL.
The last thing I needed right now was to see the face of the Postmates delivery person as they arrived with my pills.
Once I was certain the order had been accepted, I turned off my phone and hugged the extra pillow to my chest. I wanted to call Drea. No, I wanted to call Jack.
I hugged the pillow tighter, wishing madly that it still smelled like him. But it didn’t. Jack was gone. And so was I.
“Laurel, baby, wake up.”
My eyelids fluttered open at the sound of Jack’s voice, and my heartbeat came to a screeching halt when I saw him kneeling at my bedside. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, clutching at the sharp twinge in my chest as I realized I was either dreaming or so dehydrated I was hallucinating. I pulled the covers over my head to avoid any further torturous visions.
“Baby, look at me. Are you hungover? Do you need me to get you something?”
“Stop it. Please,” I begged my traitorous mind to stop playing tricks on me.
“I know I fucked up by missing your birthday, but I explained everything in the email. Did you read my email?”
My eyelids flew open as I slowly pushed the covers off my head. Jack was kneeling next to my bed, wearing a black long-sleeve T-shirt with the words Professional Asshole written in white block letters across his chest.
My entire body began to tremble. “Is it really you? I’m not dreaming?”
Chapter 1
Jack
The note on my desk, the torn strip of lined paper with the fuzzy edges and hand-scrawled words written in blue ballpoint pen, taunted me.
* * *
New Horizons
1200 NW Couch
* * *
I had already looked up the address and determined that there were no such businesses by the name New Horizons at 1200 NW Couch Street in Portland. In fact, that address no longer existed, as almost the entire block now belonged to a Whole Foods supermarket, opened in 2002.
The piece of paper didn’t haunt me because there was no phone number. I had already established that the company no longer existed in the Portland area. I had searched within a twenty-mile radius of this old address to see if the business had moved. I found three New Horizons: one wellness center, one dental office, and one homeowner’s association, none of which had an office in the Pearl District in 1992.
It wasn’t even the mystery of what kind of company New Horizons was that tormented me. I had already sifted through old property tax records online and found the name of the entity that owned the building in 1992. Soon, I would have the name of the company or individual who had leased 1200 NW Couch from them.
The note taunted me for one reason and one reason only, bec
ause of what it promised to be: a portal into a world I may not come back from.
The brown cardboard moving box in which I’d found the note sat innocently on the floor behind my desk chair. The manila file folders I’d found inside were piled neatly, as if they’d never been disturbed. Except for the seven empty bottles of Barley Legal IPA lined up on top of my desk, everything in my office looked the way it had before Laurel and I left for her mother’s house yesterday. There were no physical signs my world had been flipped upside down.
Turning my attention back to my iMac computer screen, I watched as my email inbox continued to fill up with unread messages asking where I was and why I hadn’t come in to work. It was barely four in the afternoon and my assistant Jade would probably call in a search party if I didn’t phone her back soon. But I had no desire to see or talk to anyone right now. Especially not when I was unshowered and drunk on a Thursday afternoon.
I was such a fucking cliché. I couldn’t bring myself to do anything other than crack open a bottle of beer every thirty minutes as I pored over the case evidence for the trillionth time. I couldn’t decide if I felt dead inside or if I was finally waking up and seeing how fucking shaky my marriage truly was.
What I did know was my blood was poisoned with hatred right now. If I left this house, I was liable to wind up in that fucker Isaac’s hospital room with my hands wrapped around his tattooed neck. He’d probably welcome it.
I closed my email client and opened up the terminal. I should probably get some work done. But as soon as I began typing in a command, the doorbell rang. As badly as I wanted to ignore it, I knew that was not a long-term strategy.
