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My relationship with Enoch might be just as damaged as my marriage with Reese, but they aren’t broken, per Enoch. Damage can be mended through love and forgiveness. I’m not Van Gogh anymore. I’m not a vigilante who doesn’t know how to channel his rage into justice. I am Assistant District Attorney Alistair Cain. Justice has become my paint and the courtroom, my canvas.
I don’t fight for others to chase out the demons in my head any longer; I fuck my wife for that. I fight for others because justice is my passion. I promised the people of Atlanta that I would clean up their city, and now, as I stand, shoving every item of clothing my wife owns into her suitcase, I know I can’t do it without her.
Reese has always been my muse—my passion.
I’ve loved her more than I’ve hated her.
And for the first time in my life, I’m going to allow her to tell me what to do.
“What’s that stupid look on your face for? You fart or something?”
For fuck’s sake, is Bach still here? “Take the cat and fucking leave,” I snap. “I’m fine. I don’t plan on burning Eden or anyone living on its acreage for at least a few more months.”
Enoch always said we shouldn’t make promises we couldn’t keep.
“Whatever.” Bach slides off the dresser and casts me an annoyed look. “Have fun groveling to your wife. If you need any tips, call Tennyson. He’s a bigger pussy than you are.”
I don’t understand why Enoch felt the need to “give me brothers” a year after I moved in with him. One asshole is more than enough in a community.
“Don’t forget the fucking cat,” I say, watching as Bach’s back disappears into the hall. “And you better not kill her while we’re gone!”
What was I thinking, asking this moron to watch Biscuit for a few months? He’s the least paternal figure out of the four of us, but Tennyson would let Simeon eat her as a snack, and Shakespeare would likely forget he was even supposed to watch her. My options were limited. The fucker better not let me down.
My phone buzzes in my pocket again. It’s the third time in the last half hour, and I smile before I unlock it.
Reese: I know you’re ignoring me on purpose.
That I am. I don’t want to reconcile with my wife over text. I want to see her shocked look when I tell her she is never leaving me again. Honestly, it’s her fault for even giving me the opportunity. She should have used the chink in my madness and ran when I permitted her. But she’s crazy and said she would wait until I pulled my head out of my ass. Not very smart on her part.
Reese: Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Immediately, my phone starts dinging with text messages. Two are from my personal banks, stating that my account balance has dropped below $1,000; the others are from an offshore account where my portion of the oil business resides.
I couldn’t be prouder. My wife has emptied and frozen all my accounts.
Reese: If you don’t call me in the next five minutes, I will donate all this money to Blake’s dorm.
Now, she’s gone too far.
Me: Blake will be dead before the money hits the account.
Reese: Hello, Husband. So nice of you to check on me. I’m doing fine with my sister and her HUSBAND here in the country. Can you believe she’s married?! The guy looks like he eats children for breakfast!
This is why I have ignored her calls and texts. Once she knows she has my attention, she will suffocate me with stories of her sister and questions about Enoch. I’m prepared for those conversations, but again, I don’t want to have them on the phone.
Me: Do you have comfortable shoes on?
Reese: Define comfortable.
Have fucking mercy.
Me: Never mind. I’ll deal with it. Be there in an hour.
Reese: You’re coming here?
I refuse to answer her last question. She can spend her last hour with her sister worrying about it. Latching Reese’s suitcase, I scoop Biscuit off the bed and rub her head a few times. “I’m going to go get your frustrating mother. Use Bach’s expensive piano as a scratching post if the mood strikes you. He’ll love it. I promise.”
The cat in my arms purrs like she’ll do just that. At least one woman in this house pretends she can be obedient.
