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He keeps my hand so I can steady myself, but it’s not going to happen in heels. I remove one shoe, then the other. When my feet contact the blacktop, I learn I’m much shorter than Razor than I had originally believed.
“I can walk you to her,” he says, but I detect his hesitancy.
“I’ll be fine.” I withdraw my hand from his and head in Addison’s direction.
A cool breeze blows across the parking lot and it carries Razor’s low and seductive voice to my ears. “Hey, Breanna.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Be safe.”
Those are two enticing and lovely words. “I will be. I have you protecting me, right?”
Maybe I’m misreading Razor, but his eyes travel my body like he might toss me onto the bed of the truck and kiss me in a way I’ve never been kissed before. “Don’t worry. I completely have your back.”
RAZOR
LAST PERSON I expected at my house was a middle-aged woman in a pair of tight jeans and a thick-strapped black tank cooking o
ver the gas stove. I shut the door loudly with my foot and that wins her attention. By the way her face falls, she wasn’t expecting me, either.
“Hello.” She wipes her hands on her jeans. The scent of fried bacon hangs in the air. Dad could eat bacon every day, three times a day. “Your father didn’t expect you home.”
Home. My home, not hers. I scan the room and there’s no sign of anyone else. My bedroom and Dad’s bedroom are black and the door to the bathroom is open. Unless Dad’s hiding from this chick in the closet, she and I are completely alone.
“I mean, it’s your home,” she says as if reading my mind, “so of course you would show, but your dad thought you’d be gone for a couple of days.”
Eli said I needed to give Dad a break. I gave him two days. I spent Friday and Saturday night in one of the rooms upstairs at the club. Only showing at the clubhouse after I knew Dad would be gone. He texted this morning and asked if I’d be back tonight. I didn’t respond, but I now know why he was interested. He’s playing house.
“I’m Jillian, but your dad calls me Jill.” She brushes her long dirty-blond bangs from her forehead as she stares at me, I guess waiting for me to speak.
Another swipe of her hair. “You’re Razor, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you like some dinner? It’s breakfast, but it’s dinner, you know.” Her voice shakes and she twists, then retwists, her fingers. “It’s your dad’s favorite. He’s on his way home. He’ll be thrilled for you to join us.”
Us. The word is like a hammer and I’m the nail. Us. As if she belongs here and I don’t. Us. The world feels disjointed.
Two days away wasn’t enough. Hell, thirty years may not do the job. For over thirteen years, my father was faithful—loving the same woman day in and day out. Since three weeks after her death, it’s been this. An endless parade of women through a revolving door.
The detective’s voice loops in my brain: Your mother was unhappy... She was going to leave him. My mother was on her knees in front of me when she told me he was a man worth forgiving.
My gut twists. What if this parade wasn’t new? What if Mom was leaving and the stream of women was the reason why? Breaking at the seams, I burst and throw a fist into the wall.
A picture frame crashes to the floor and shatters. The woman jumps and there’s an indentation in the drywall that’s going to piss Dad off. The thought brings a grim sense of satisfaction.
“You’re not the first. Cooking bacon isn’t going to make you last any longer than the others.” It’s an asshole thing to say, but it’s also the most humane. This woman’s trying too hard and those are the ones who show here weeks later in tears trying to understand why it didn’t work between them.
“It’s not like that,” she pleads. “Your dad and I—we aren’t like that.”
That’s what he convinces the women he sweet-talks into sleeping with him. I should tell her, but this is Dad’s mess to clean up. Not mine. I walk past her, flick the switch to the light in my bedroom and grab a bag off the floor. They want to play house, I’ll let them. She can stay as many nights as she desires or until Dad decides to trade her in for a new model.
The door to the house squeaks and my drawer makes a whooshing sound as I pull it out. I toss in some boxers and socks. Slam that one shut and I dump as many shirts as I can out of the middle drawer.
Low voices. A feminine sob. My dad’s deep tone.
“He didn’t mean it,” she says. “Please, don’t. Not over me.”
