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I didn’t want to go, but Charlotte basically forced me. I think she conspired with Winston on Thanksgiving, because I caught them in an intense conversation at one point, their heads bent together, their gazes serious as Winston explained something to her in low tones. I tried to spy on them but of course, my wife noticed me and called me out.
She never would tell me what she talked about with Winston, but the next thing I knew, I had the entire family on my ass about how I needed to get back to work and not stay holed up in the apartment forever.
“You can’t be on a year-long honeymoon,” Keaton had said, and I knew he was just giving me a hard time, but he also knows what happened to Charlotte.
And how we kept it quiet.
Not many people know that Seamus abducted her, and of course, her father never mentioned it because talk about bad press. Lancasters hate that sort of thing. Turns out, so do Constantines.
Such a bunch of shit.
I played nice and agreed with everyone that I should return to the office. Charlotte beamed like a proud wife, though I’m thinking she just wants me out of her hair. I’m like a watchdog, always chasing after her, making sure she’s eating right and sleeping well and that she’s not too sad. She won’t talk about what happened to her, not anymore, and I swear she’s keeping it all bottled up inside and it’s eating at her.
It’s the only part of her that’s eating, considering how thin she is. I watched her at Thanksgiving. She picked at her plate, moving food around and not really eating any of it. No one else caught on, but I did. I saw it.
When it comes to Charlotte, I notice every little thing.
I tried to talk to her about it later that night, but she shut me up by shoving her hand down the front of my jeans and next thing I knew, she had my dick out and her lips wrapped around it. I’m not going to argue when my wife willingly gives me a blow job. I forget everything when she’s touching me, and she knows it.
I dump all my stuff at my desk before I storm into Winston’s office, noting the way he leans back in his chair, resting his loosely clutched hands on his chest as he contemplates me.
“Been waiting for you to come barreling in here,” he drawls as I slam the door shut.
I fall into the chair across from his desk, glaring at him. “I don’t barrel.”
“Hate to say it, but you just did.” He’s quiet for a moment and so am I, stewing in my thoughts before he finally asks, “What’s your problem?”
“Something’s wrong with my wife, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
“What’s going on between you two? Seemed perfectly lovey-dovey last Thursday.” Winston makes a face. He’s not into public displays of affection, though Ash has turned him around on that subject.
Somewhat.
“Our sex life is good. I know she doesn’t hate me. She just acts so… numb all the time. As if she feels nothing. She won’t eat. She’s having nightmares.” I pause, scrubbing my hand across my jaw. “I suggested she go to therapy, but she said she doesn’t trust anyone enough to share her story with.”
“I suppose I don’t blame her,” Winston says, not helping my cause whatsoever. “It’s hard to open up.”
“I think I’m the only Constantine who has no problems expressing his feelings,” I mutter. “All the rest of you are ridiculous.”
“I’m not too sure about that. Does Charlotte know how you feel about her?” Winston raises a brow.
I hesitate with my answer. I haven’t told her so much in words, but can’t she tell? Don’t I show her how much I care?
“I’m guessing that’s a no,” he says wryly. “You can’t expect her toknowhow you feel. Women get all twisted up, trying to figure us out. You have to tell her.”
“She twists me up too, you know,” I mutter.
Am I in love with her? I don’t know. I’ve never been in love with a woman before. I definitely care about her. Feel possessive about her. In fact, that reminds me of a certain McDickhead…
“Heard anything about you know who?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t want to talk about my feelings for Charlotte. I have a hard enough time trying to process them on my own. I don’t want to examine them with my hard-ass brother.
“Not a single thing. I still follow up with Myron once a week. He lost complete sight of him right after it happened,” Winston reminds me, not that I need it. “He up and disappeared. I wonder if he went back to Ireland. Myron thinks he’s there, but nothing has popped up. No credit card receipts, no plane tickets, no visuals on random surveillance video. And he’s not in Bishop’s Landing. He would’ve been spotted by now.”
“Maybe my wife scared him off. She probably fucked him up when she threw soup at face,” I suggest, still marveling she even did that.
Charlotte is more kick-ass than she realizes.
“Maybe.” I can hear the amusement in my brother’s voice, which doesn’t help my mood.
