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“Count me in, man.”
CHAPTERTWELVE
Alex sat on one of the rocking chairs on Joe’s front porch. A glance next door revealed a dark, still house. Her plan had been to wait for Quinn to come home from work so she could apologize for bolting out of his office like a madwoman. Seeing Joe had taken her by surprise and sent her mind reeling. But that was no excuse for being rude to someone she hoped was becoming a friend.
The sun had set almost an hour prior, and it was closing in on nine. Still, no Quinn. Her apology would have to be added to the top of her to-do list tomorrow. Not that she had a bustling list. Swinging by the clinic for her back and grocery shopping were the only other two items.
She melted into the cushion she’d placed behind her back and closed her eyes. The quiet night enveloped her. Focusing on the gentle, rhythmic sway of the rocker, she fought to slow her breathing and willed her mind to calm.
Just over a year ago, by a stroke of luck, god, fate—whatever you wanted to call it—she’d stumbled upon a pair of women who had righted her sinking ship. Those two strangers had given her the tools she’d needed to not only survive, but more importantly, the tools she’d needed toovercome. The ongoing counseling and therapy they’d provided had helped her realize that she needed to leave her husband.
She’d known she couldn’t just divorce Preston. He wouldn’t allow it. So, she’d designed her escape. Meticulously. Unfortunately, the age-old adage about best laid plans going awry was so, so true.
Looking back, there had been some glaring holes in her scheme. Probably thanks to watchingSleeping with the Enemyone too many times.
Now, Alex had a month. Just one short month before she might have to fight for her freedom all over again. She wanted to believe Preston wouldn’t come after her, that he had bigger things to worry about. But she knew better.
Once he was released from jail, the clock would start ticking. Within hours of ascertaining her location, he’d be knocking down Joe’s door. Even faster if he knew the miscarriage had been a lie.
For the millionth time, she wondered how Preston had learned about the pregnancy in the first place. She certainly hadn’t told him. But somehow, he’d found out. During that final attack, he’d screamed something about the baby not being his. The accusation of infidelity had been less surprising than his knowledge of the baby.Whore,cunt, andcheating slutwere his go-to insults any time he beat her.
She wasn’t sure why Preston had attacked her that final night—then again, he’d never really needed a reason—but regardless of the cause, regardless of whether he was aware of the baby or not, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he blamed hercompletelyfor everything that had happened. His arrest. His jail time. She was at fault. Always.
When he found her, he would take none of the responsibility. Instead, he’d lay the blame solely at her feet. Reprimand her for airing their “personal issues” in public and ruining his precious image. He would claim it was her, and her alone, who’d destroyed his political career—and hence, his entire life—by ending up in the hospital.
And that made her nervous.
No. It petrified her.
Because his professional aspirations were everything to him. Preston WoodsworthIIIhad been groomed since birth to become a member of the political elite.
Now it was over.
And he’d want his revenge.
She opened her eyes, and an icy chill ran through her body. Her trembling hands reached for the pack of cigarettes sitting on the little table next to her. She’d come across the open pack in one of the kitchen drawers and had been staring at them ever since.
She used to smoke. A horrible habit, for sure, but it had been her crutch. However, a year ago, Preston had... convinced her... to quit.
But right now, she was craving a cigarette. Desperately.
She shouldn’t smoke, especially since she was pregnant, but she pulled one out of the box, anyway. Putting it to her lips, she struck the match and inhaled.
Her chest seized.
Holy shit.
It wasn’t like riding a bike. At all.
She coughed. The smoke was so much thicker than she’d remembered, the taste more bitter. A wave of nausea consumed her. With watering eyes, she bolted out of the rocking chair. Gripping the porch railing with one hand—the other still held the cigarette—she leaned over and emptied her stomach onto the shrubs below.
Once her insides settled, she sank back into the chair. With the rocker in motion, she eyed the offending cigarette in her hand. “There goes that.”
She put the cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe. Its burning ember slowly went out with a soft, sizzling hiss, and the sound took her back in time.
Preston strode up behind her. Without giving her time to turn, he grabbed the cigarette from between her fingertips and slapped the side of her face. She teetered on unsteady feet, but his hand fisted in her hair, steadying her. Fire exploded along her scalp as he dragged her through the French doors and into the house. She’d rather have fallen.
“Natalie, really. You shouldn’t smoke,” he said, his own cigarette dangling from his lips. “What would the neighbors think?”
