When we get home from Fontana’s place, Prime retreats into his game room with a bottle of bourbon. I want to follow but he clearly needs space.
And if I’m honest with myself…
I do too. I feel dirty after that went down. I strip out of my dress and sink into a warm bath, gazing up at the ceiling with my ears just under the surface. I hear my heart beating against my eardrums and the soft whoosh of water sloshing along the stone tub sides, but otherwise it’s like floating on nothing.
Can I really ask this of him?
That’s what I keep coming back to. Again and again, I wonder, can I really leash him like this?
Prime’s not like normal people. I don’t know anyone in the world who would’ve gone as far as he has trying to get his revenge. He made it right to the doorstep of the man he hates most of all but only ended up knocked down to the ground and beaten. It’shorrible, what they’re doing to him. I’d bet Prime would rather be dead.
And there was a moment during dinner when I thought he might try something.
A sick part of me wanted him to.
Carbone would’ve killed me though and that’s what held Prime back in the end.
It comes back to me. Again and again, it comes back to me. I think if I were anyone else, he would’ve thrown me under the bus. I don't think Prime’s the kind of man who cares easily. There are too many bodies in his closet for one more to matter much.
I’m the exception. He made that abundantly clear.
Why do I feel so damn guilty about it? I never asked for any of this.
I didn’t even know about Shawn, Prime’s past with Fontana, or the killing scheme until it was way too late to back out.
I’m innocent. I know it, but it still feels terrible.
Prime doesn’t come to bed that night. I find him sprawled on the pool table, bottle of bourbon smashed on the floor. I try to rouse him, but he only grunts and rolls onto his side.
Fuck, I hate seeing him like this.
But even if it feels like our life is over, the world keeps spinning. I’m not sure what else to do, so I head into the office.
Prime doesn’t show up. He’s not at home when I check on him at lunch time. He’s gone by the time I come back from the office for the day and he doesn’t return the next morning.
I call and text, but there’s no reply.
He staggers in at two in the morning three days later reeking of booze and looking like he hasn’t slept. “Prime, are you okay? Where have you been?”
“Keeping busy.” He pauses to pull me against him. I yelp, pushing back. He slams a whiskey-soaked kiss on my lips. “God, you’re pretty.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not nearly enough.”
I wriggle from his grip. “Take a shower. You smell like the bottom of a bar urinal.”
“Could be worse.” He wrinkles his nose. “You should’ve seen the toilet.”
The water runs upstairs. I pace, feeling lost. I never imagined seeing Prime this adrift. It’s like he’s not the man I first met a couple years ago, the man I married, the man I fell in love with.
I find his jeans tossed on the bed. I’m about to go find him when I notice a bulge in the back pocket and a black barrel peeking out.
A handgun. And a phone I don’t recognize, an old flip phone model, though this one looks new. No numbers in the phonebook. No recent calls.
What does he need a burner for?
I’m waiting on the bed when he comes out. A towel’s wrapped around his waist. His hair’s wet and water glistens on his muscular chest. He runs his eyes down my legs and pauses when he spots the phone and the weapon sitting next to me.
