“Is that what that smell was?” Rosaleen asks.
“Yep.”
My fists clench. Of all the selfish, irresponsible . . . I was young once too, but twenty-six isn’t that goddamn young. It’s too old to be an excuse for sheer fucking stupidity.
“They were dicks,” Rory offers.
I don’t even chastise him for the language, ’cause I couldn’t agree more.
Then we go back to watching the movie.
• • •
“That was awesome,” Raymond declares as Cyndi Lauper sings over the rolling credits.
“Is there a part two?” Riley asks.
“Nope.” I yawn. “In the eighties they knew not to mess with perfection.”
Rosaleen jumps on my lap, making me grunt. Then she grabs my face with both little hands, sliding one side down and pushing the other up. “You’re kinda like that Sloth guy, Jake. You’re big and loud.” She gazes down at me thoughtfully. “But you’re not as ugly as him.”
I’ll take what I can get. “Thanks,” I murmur though squashed lips.
The kids climb off the bed, stretching and bleary eyed. Rory asks, “Do we have to brush our teeth?”
I walk with them down the stairs to the second floor. “Nah, I think your teeth will survive one night without it. Just go to sleep.”
The boys head into their room, and Riley emerges from Regan’s after successfully laying her down. She pins me with her judgmental teenage stare, then gives me the smallest of smiles. “This was fun. Thanks.”
And a weird, warm feeling tingles in my chest. “It was. You’re welcome.”
Rosaleen takes my hand and tugs me into her room. It’s pink and princessy, with a unicorn border and a rainbow, blue-skyed mural painted on the ceiling. She climbs into her four-poster bed. “Will you lay down with me, Jake?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Her teeth chatter dramatically and she pulls the covers up to her chin. “But what if One-Eyed Willie comes to get me?”
I scratch the back of my neck, debating. “Well . . . we can leave your door open and the hall light on?”
Nope—not good enough.
“And . . . I can sit outside your door until you fall asleep.” I brought my laptop to get some work done, and the floor suits me as well as a desk. I’m not picky.
“Okay.” She smiles. Then she waves me closer with her hand. I lean down and she raises her head off the pillow, pressing the softest kiss to my cheek.
And the weird, warm tingles surge with a vengeance.
“Good night, Jake. Sweet dreams.”
I watch her for a moment as she nestles under the covers, the very image of all things pure and good and innocent. And everything in me wants her to be able to stay just like that.
I shake my head at my sentimentality. Because I don’t fucking do sappy. Harsh, cynical, brutally honest, yes—but never sappy.
I turn off the light. “Good night, Rosaleen.”
• • •
Sometime later—thirty minutes or three hours—I wake up on the floor, my computer open on my lap, chin to chest, my neck aching and my ass totally numb. It’s disorienting at first; I’m not sure where I am or why I’m on the goddamn floor. I look around, inhaling deeply, and then I remember. The Goonies, Chelsea going out with her loser friends, the kids.
I close the laptop and rub my eyes, wondering what woke me up. Rosaleen’s still out cold and all is silent from the other three closed doors in the hall, including the baby’s room. I get to my feet and—
Thump.
A sound comes from downstairs, then indecipherable low voices.
What the hell?
My muscles tighten, expecting trouble. Maybe someone’s breaking in? I wonder if Chelsea ever moved that key from under the mat.
“Mmm . . . yeah . . .”
That was a male moan. A burglar wouldn’t be fucking moaning.
I creep down the stairs, ears straining. And the voices get clearer with each step.
“Lucas!” That was Chelsea.
“You’re so fucking hot, babe.”
My stomach twists and my fists clench. It’s not a burglar.
“I need you so bad,” he says.
“Lucas—”
Her voice is low, a harsh whisper because she’s thinking of the kids. She’s always thinking of the kids. But her words are clear.
“Lucas, get off.”
And so are his.
“Don’t be a bitch, Chels. I know you want it.”
“No. Stop, Lucas—no!”
“Shh, relax. Just let me—”
And I fucking lose it.
I round the corner into the living room. They’re on the couch, still fully clothed. He’s on top, grinding on her, covering her almost completely except for her legs.
Her twisting, kicking legs.
In one move, I pull him off Chelsea by the back of his shirt. I hold him suspended with one hand and punch him in the face with other. My fist makes contact with a satisfying crunch and I feel his nose crack under my knuckles. My vision is tinged white with rage, and my pulse pounds a murderous beat in my eardrums as I pull back and nail him again in the mouth. He raises his hands for protection, and I drop him to the floor.
Just so I can kick him. My boot catches him right under the rib, driving the breath from his lungs.
And I want more. I’m hungry for it—pain, blood, and fucking suffering.
He gasps and wheezes, trying to replace the air. But I don’t hear it. I don’t even see him, really. The only image playing behind my eyes is Chelsea—sweet and gentle, unwilling and struggling beneath him. Telling him no. Begging him to stop.