Caveman (Wild Men 1)

She’s unbuttoning her light coat, and she’s not wearing a dress underneath like I thought. Her red blouse fits like a glove, dark like blood, hugging her curves, kissing her collarbone. Her jeans are old and faded, ripped at one knee, and I find myself straining for a single fucking glimpse of her bare flesh.

“Sit down,” I rasp.

She doesn’t. Of course not. “I’ll see to the kids,” she says, her voice so soft I barely hear her. I watch her lips move. “I’ll be right back.”

The kids have fled the living room—and me—as fast as their little feet could carry them, vanishing into the kitchen, and she follows them.

They don’t really like me.

Like that’s news. How many times do I have to experience it for the knowledge to sink in?

And I suck at taking care of them.

But I can’t employ this nanny. Fuck, what am I doing, letting her into my house, letting her think she can work for me?

Telling others she’s mine?

I flex my hands—one bruised and aching, the other stiff and half-numb ever since that night when the dark became too much.

One more thing I’d rather not remember.

She returns, takes a seat across from me. So close.

What the hell, isn’t she afraid anymore? She doesn’t recall my fist smashing into the fucking door, right in front of her, or my damn angry words?

If her memory is so short-term, she won’t survive long in this world.

She licks her lips, clasps her hands nervously together. “Matt…”

But she doesn’t continue.

She’s leaving. I know she is.

And that’s good, that’s what she should do, so why the fuck am I hunching over, my stomach in knots? My head is pounding. I should be getting ready to go to work, but I don’t move.

Can’t.

“Bad night?” she finally asks, and I blink, certain I didn’t hear her well.

I drop my gaze down to my hands, curled on my thighs. I shrug.

And she leans closer. She’s in my space. Nobody stands or sits so close to me except for my kids. “I wanted to ask you about the kids’ mother.”

Fuck. I climb to my feet. “We’re done here.”

“I need to know.” Said so earnestly. Naively. “Mary needs—”

“What the fuck ever.” Hot anger rockets through my chest, burning up my neck. “She doesn’t concern you.”

“Doesn’t she?” She gives me an incredulous look that only makes me angrier. When I don’t speak, a flush spreads on her cheeks. “I’m going to be looking after these kids. It may be hard for you to talk about her, but the kids seem to miss her and—”

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

She flinches. Hard.

Fuck. Fuck!

I glance at the kitchen door where Cole is standing, staring back at me with wide eyes. He scurries away.