Out of Love(84)

I wanted to lift the weight of the world from her shoulders, but I couldn’t. “There wasn’t a lot of sleep involved.”

She attempted a weak smirk while sliding on a gray satin blouse and buttoning it.

“Come here.” I eased my legs over the side of the bed and spread them. My hands reached for her waist as she took hesitant steps toward me, gaze sweeping along my face.

“You’re a mess. Don’t get blood on my work clothes.”

I nodded slowly as my hands slid from her waist to her ass, and she rested her hands on my shoulders. “I love you, Livy.”

She swallowed hard. “But you love her too.”

Tension gripped my face, tightening my brow as my gaze slipped from hers to her partially buttoned blouse. “I love you, Livy.”

“But …” I could tell from her shaky voice that emotions were gathering in her eyes, and I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t look up.

Taking her hand, I lifted her wrist to my lips and pressed a kiss to it. “No buts, Liv … no buts …”

Her hand moved to cup my jaw, fingers teasing my short beard. I closed my eyes.

“What now?”

I guided her back a step so I could stand. “Now you go to work.” After pressing my lips to the top of her head, I brushed past her toward the bathroom.

Livy met me at the door when I came out of the bathroom after my shower, wearing only a pair of jeans. “Here.” She handed me a shirt. One of my old shirts. “Since your other shirt is soiled with blood.” Pivoting, she sauntered back to the kitchen in her heels, looking sinfully sexy in that tight skirt and legs that made me weak in the knees. “I don’t have coffee. Ten different flavors of tea, but no coffee.” She shrugged, taking a sip of her tea as I pulled on my shirt.

“Did you take anything else of mine or just this shirt and my dog?”

Her grin hid behind the mug. “Shirts, sweatshirts, your denim jacket. A couple guns and a few knives.”

I lifted a single brow, unable to read her well enough to know if she was serious.

“And your boyfriend is okay with it?”

Her smile faded as she lowered her mug to the counter, cupping it with both hands. “I can end it with a call. Can you say the same?”

I shook my head.

“Wylder … Alex … whatever …” She gazed at the steam rising from the tea. “I need to know. Do you have children?”

I paused, not intending for my pause to be an assumed yes, but as tears filled her eyes, I knew that’s exactly what she thought.

“Oh god …” She covered her mouth and closed her eyes, shaking her head several times before dropping her hand. “You have a family. That’s … that’s not okay. What I did was not okay. It was wrong last night, but you have a family. You don’t …” She batted away a stray tear. “You don’t do this to your family.”

I made my way to her, pressing my chest to her back, hands snaking around her waist as my mouth dipped to her ear. “What bothers you more? The idea that I have children and I cheated on my family? Or the idea that I have children and they’re not ours?”

“It’s not fair to ask me that.” Her hands covered mine over her stomach.

“I have one child.”

She stiffened, holding her breath.

“A boy.”

Nothing. Not one breath, not one sound.

“His name is Jericho. He’s ten, but he lives with his mom.”

It took her all of two seconds to turn around and fist my shirt. “You’re such an asshole.” She narrowed her eyes.

“I am.” I grabbed her face and kissed off every ounce of lipstick, leaving her breathless and red from my whiskers. “I’m going back to Austin today. Talk to your dad.”

She pulled back. “What does that mean?”

“It means … talk to your dad.” I kissed her forehead and stepped back, making my way to the door. “I’ll take Jericho out. You’re going to be late if you don’t get going.”

When I opened the door and whistled to Jericho, her high heels clicked furiously along the hard floor toward me. She threw her arms around my neck. “You’re not coming back, are you? This is goodbye, isn’t it?” she whispered, voice thick with emotion.

It. Fucking. Killed. Me.

I hugged her waist, lifting her off the ground and burying my face into her neck. “Talk to your dad.”





Chapter Thirty-Six




Livy


I couldn’t go back to San Francisco, not with my workload. So I asked my dad to come to Sacramento that weekend.

Wylder? He left. No contact information. Nothing more than a sad smile, a kiss goodbye, and a final “talk to your dad.”

When I opened the door, mid-morning Saturday, Dad smiled and held out his arms. I returned a frown, pivoted, and shuffled back to my kitchen to finish washing my dirty dishes from the previous days.

“That’s not the greeting I expected when you texted me to visit you.” He shut the door.

I resumed scrubbing the dishes in the sink with my back to him. “Slade’s alive.”

“What?”

“No!” I whipped back around, hands fisted at my sides, dripping soapy water onto the floor. “Not what, like you didn’t hear me. Not what like you can’t believe what I just said. The correct answer is: When did you find out, Livy? I’m incredibly sorry for lying to you for five years. It broke my heart to watch you grieve him for so long. But I did it because …” I lifted both hands, palms up, eyes wide and expectant. “Fill in the fucking blank, Dad!”