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Except we both know that’s not true. It hasn’t been true since my dad died. It may never be true again, a thought that makes me feel like an elephant and its best friend sat on my chest and decided to have a tea party there.
I’m still feeling that pounding sense of dread when Ruthie emerges and tells me that I’m being called to duty. I read Izzy her story, then tuck her into her little pink bed.
I thought she was asleep, but before I go, she blinks open her bright blue eyes. “I love you, Uncle Shane,” she says, which fills me with raw emotion and shame.
“I love you too, honey,” I say, then head out into the living room to have a come-to-Jesus moment with my wife.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, Flower at her feet and a glass of whiskey in front of her. There’s another glass of amber fluid at the seat across from her—my seat, I’m guessing. Interesting. I’ve never known her to like the hard stuff.
“Did you poison it?” I ask as I cross the distance between us and sit in front of it.
“There’s only one way to find out,” she tells me with a saucy smile that makes me feel like Rule Number One is one of those dry-as-fuck scones, crumbling to pieces.
I lift the glass and gulp, because I need the raw heat of it in my gut. It’s been a strange day—the kind of day that makes a mark on a man’s soul. If I have a soul, it’s made a mark on mine.
“Why’d you insist on staying, Shane?” Ruthie asks, leaning forward a little. The sweatshirt gapes, giving me a glimpse of her silky black bra, which gets the enviable job of cupping her tits.
I clear my throat and look up, quick enough to catch the sly smile on her face. “You enjoy toying with me, Ruthie?” I ask. Not what I’d intended to say, but my self-control hasn’t slipped back into place.
“So, you’ve noticed, huh?” she asks. There’s a flush on her cheeks, but something tells me it’s not embarrassment. It’s the same feeling that’s coursing through me.
Fuck. Fuck.
I take another gulp of whiskey. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
Her smile stretches wider. “It’s not every day a woman gets to marry a pretty, pretty princess. Can you blame me for wanting to commemorate it?”
I clear my throat and straighten on the chair, trying to stuff down the need frothing inside of me—urging me to pull down those inadequate little shorts and show her what her games do to me.
“I stayed because I wanted to talk to you about Rita.”
Her face creases into a scowl. “What do you have to do with it? She’s my cross to bear.”
“Not entirely true,” I say, rapping my fingers against the table, needing something to do with them so I don’t give in to the urge to touch her, to take her.
“What do you mean, Shane?”
“Just that I’ve helped Danny in the past. She’s gotten pulled in for Drunk and Disorderlies, and I’ve helped her stay out of jail.”
“You did what?” she asks crisply, her flush now all anger. This, at least, is familiar. Ruthie mad at me. Ruthie telling me I’ve overstepped. Ruthie thinking I’m selfish and small-minded. This, I know how to navigate.
“He didn’t want her in jail. He figured… Well, I guess he figured you’d feel the same way.”
“And neither of you thought to ask me?” she asks, her hand curling into a fist on the tabletop. “I’m just a kid, right? At twenty-eight, with a kid of my own. I don’t deserve a say. If she went to jail, it would be because she deserves it.”
My gaze is on that fist, because part of me wants her to pound it against me, or open it and spear it through my hair. “Drunk and Disorderlies are usually bullshit,” I tell her, my voice thick. “A way to keep poor people in prison and away from the rich people who don’t like seeing them. I thought you’d be averse to that kind of thing.”
“Maybe if it wasn’t her,” she says with an acrimony that surprises me.
“We should have talked to you,” I confirm. “But Danny and I figured she’d be better at sticking to the rules we set if we gave her something in return.”
“You were bribing her not to reach out to me?” she asks, her eyes alive with fire.
“Yes,” I say with no remorse. She gets up off her chair so suddenly it falls, and the little dog goes scurrying into the connected living room, probably sensing a grenade has gone off. I get up too, because I’m a man who would rather face my fate standing up.
She backs me into the wall behind me. It’s not appropriate, it’s not good, but there’s no denying the truth: I’m so fucking hard it hurts.
“You’re still wearing your crown, your majesty,” she says, smirking at me even though her eyes are furious.
