She wiggles her ass. “Is this what you noticed?”
I slide an arm around Adley’s waist and lower my lips to her ear, tickling the soft skin with the scruff on my jaw. “Wiggle that ass again, and it’ll be mine.”
She turns in my arms. “It turns me on when you get all possessive. Makes me want to do it again just to test you.”
“Do it. I promise you won’t make it to whatever appointment you have today, and you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.”
Her eyes widen, lips part, and for a second I think she’s going to take me up on the offer.
“Monroe will never forgive me if I miss our appointment at the bridal shop.”
I kiss her sweet lips and smack her ass before stepping away. “Get out of here before I make us both late.”
“Fine.” She pouts but grabs her shirt off the floor where I tossed it a couple hours ago.
She came by after her final test, and I was more than happy to help her celebrate.
Pulling her shirt back on, she looks up at me. “What are you doing this afternoon?”
“I need to run by Dad’s, and then I’ll head over to The Barn for a few hours to get some training in. Is your gas tank full?”
She grins and slips her shoes on. “Yes.”
“Good girl. Text me when you get to Heaven.”
“Always,” she says, turning toward the door. “Goodbye, Lincoln.”
“See ya, sunshine.”
She blows me a kiss and slips out the door.
I’ve always been a man of control. I know when to bend and when to stand strong. I make my mind up about something, and I stick to it, no matter what. But Adley tests that control.
She tempts me to wish for more—to hope for the things I’ve told myself I’ll never have. She’s so sweet, her skin so soft and supple, her body so inviting… Letting her walk out of my home is getting harder and harder.
2
Lincoln
An hour later, with grocery bags hanging from my arms and Adley’s sweet scent still clinging to my body, I climb the three concrete steps to my Dad’s one-bedroom house. It sits at the end of a quiet street filled with other small, modest homes.
I purchased the place four years ago when Dad foreclosed on our childhood home. Had I known there was a problem, I could’ve tried to bail him out. Unfortunately, by the time he told me, the damage had been done, and he needed a place to stay.
Living with me wasn’t an option, and there’s no way I was going to let him mooch off of my little sister, Chloe, which is why I took out a small loan and got him a place of his own. It’s not much, but it’s a roof over his head. He lives close enough to me that I can get here quick if there’s an emergency—but far enough away that he can’t walk to my house.
Well, he could walk, but he’s just too damn lazy, and driving isn’t an option since he lost that privilege years ago after one too many DUIs. Alcohol is his kryptonite. It’s the reason he lost his home, his job, his wife, and I believe firmly that it’s what drove him to discipline Chloe and me with an iron fist.
Discipline is probably too soft a word for the things he did to us. I learned early on that his hatred for Chloe was stronger than his dislike for me. Maybe it’s because she looks like our mother—the woman who walked out, leaving him to care for two kids he didn’t even want.
I was twelve when she left. Chloe was only seven. That night was the first time I threw myself between the metal end of my dad’s belt and my little sister. I couldn’t stop the beatings—they were coming whether we liked it or not. But I would do anything to keep Chloe safe, even if it meant taking the brunt of our father’s drunken rages—rages I’m not even sure he remembers.
On my sixteenth birthday, I got the courage to fight back. Dad was drunk, so it wasn’t hard to overpower him. A right hook to the jaw sent him to the ground, and he was just as stunned as I was. I braced myself for his attack, but it never came.
“About damn time you fight back, boy. At least I know I didn’t raise no pussy,” he said before stumbling off to bed.
Aside from a slap to the face here or there, he never raised a fist to either of us again. The physical scars of our childhood have faded over time, but the emotional ones never go away.
His anger has waned in his old age. Maybe it’s because he knows without Chloe and me he’d be a starving, homeless, lonely old man. Or maybe he’s seeing things a bit clearer with the beer goggles off and a death certificate just waiting to be signed.