Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I can’t help but laugh, but it sounds mirthless. “Anything is possible,” I say. “Trust me.”
She looks crestfallen at those words, staring down at her fingers.
A long silence. The wine is gone, and I reach for the whiskey instead, pouring two fingers each.
“I’m not judging you, Eliza. I know you feel like you’ve fucked up, but trust me, I’ve done worse things,” I say finally, and her head jerks up, eyes wide. “Don’t get me started on some of the black-market shit in Kabul. Or the illicit arms deals in Guam that resulted in sure-fire death. If you think showing your tits to strangers is the worst thing in the world, you haven’t seen the specter of war.”
She looks stricken, and I feel a piece of the ice melt.
“But you have to be honest with me. No more secrets,” I say, voice hardening just a bit. “I’m not your dad, not your warden. But if you want to keep this up, you tell me. If you want to stop, you tell me. Either way, I’m not going to walk away. But I need you to be honest.”
She reaches out, takes my hand. “I want to try to stop,” she says. “For real. But if I slip, or if I can’t, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
I squeeze her hand back. “Deal.”
She slumps in relief, like she’s just finished a marathon.
“I love you, Jack,” she whispers. “I don’t want to fuck this up. You mean too much to me.”
I’m not a man who says it lightly, but the words are there before I can catch them. “I love you too, Eliza. Even if you’re a pain in my ass, and a constant headache. I can’t seem to keep my mind off you, and my obsession’s only getting stronger by the day.”
She flushes a little, squeezing my hand.
“Me too, Jack. Me too,” she says in a soft voice.
We sit there, side by side, staring at the dark window like it’s going to tell us what comes next.
After a while, she shifts and rests her head on my shoulder. “So what now?” she asks, voice small.
“Now, we sleep,” I say. “And tomorrow, we talk. And talk. And talk.”
She nods, subdued. “I know. Thank you, Jack.”
I tuck her closer. “I love you, Eliza. Now let’s go upstairs.”
We get up slowly, and I lead her to the master bedroom. I undress the beautiful blonde, and she seems even more precious than before. Her shoulders are slim, breasts big, and her hips flare wide. She’s as docile as a child, but I merely pull her into bed with me before tucking her in against my side. Sure enough, Eliza’s breathing slows, her grip on my hand goes loose, and I can tell she’s finally, really asleep.
I lie awake a while longer, listening to the silent house, the steady tick of the clock down the hall, and the soft inhale-exhale of the woman in my arms.
It’s not perfect, but it’s honest.
And in the dark, I find myself grateful.
11
CHAPTER 11 – AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSITION
Jack
You can tell how old a man is by the number of microbrews and health supplements in his fridge. At my house, tonight, it’s a full squadron of both. I line up the bottles on the kitchen island—IPA, stout, a token gluten-free thing for Gerald, who claims he’s “pre-diabetic” now that he’s near fifty—and it’s almost artistic, the color gradient from urine yellow to engine oil black. The poker table’s already set up in the living room, cards fresh from the box, chips in neat little Fort Knox stacks. I’ve even lit a fancy “man candle” someone got me as a joke, so the whole place reeks of woodsmoke and a touch of aviation fuel.
Gerald arrives first, five minutes early because he can’t break the habit. He’s wearing a North Face pullover and his usual Gophers cap, his Dad bod bulging over the waistband of his khakis. He spots the poker chips, grins, and gets right to shuffling, hands twitchy like he’s been mainlining Red Bull all day.
“Ready to lose your pension?” he cracks.
“Only if you up the stakes,” I reply, grabbing a beer for him and water for me. Tonight, I want to keep my wits sharp.
The other two guys—Brent from the gym and Ken from the VFW—show up within minutes. Brent’s brought a sack of gas-station beef jerky, which he rips open and leaves on the table like it’s a centerpiece. Ken’s got a bag of “artisanal” cigars and absolutely no intention of going out to the porch to smoke them.
We settle in, deal the first hand, and the banter gets loud fast. War stories, ugly jokes, every hand another excuse to take the piss out of whoever’s lost the most weight or the most hair since last time. I play tight, stacking chips and letting them underestimate me. After years flying with these guys, I know all their tells. Gerald’s got a tick where he taps his cards three times before folding. Brent scratches his ear if he’s bluffing. Ken can’t keep a straight face to save his life, which is why he’s already down twenty bucks by the second round.