Day two of my bruised face is by far much worse than day one. It’s darker, and there’s no way I have the magical powers of Kalli Huntington when it comes to makeup, so I don’t even bother.
Graham hasn’t made an appearance yet, but it seems like he’s going to try to get to me through my family, which doesn’t surprise me at all. What scares me is what my father will say and do. I know that he and Graham are buddies.
If my father wants to ask me about my eye, then I’ll tell him the truth. I have nothing to hide, and I already know that this luncheon is about Graham. If he sees my face and still wants to push me with Graham, then I don’t even know what to think.
My father and I have never gotten along. No, that’s a lie. When I was a child, he doted on me. He doted on me to the point where my mother would get jealous. She’d say snide things to me, narrow her eyes, and just be cold toward me in general. By the time I was a teenager, it had gotten so bad that I started to rebel so that my father wouldn’t think I was perfect.
It worked.
Throughout my adult years, my relationship with my mother and father has been tolerable. They never cared for Sloane, but they supported our marriage because Sloane is from proper breeding, though they weren’t happy about it at all. They couldn’t say much. Since I’ve been back the past three years, things have improved between my mother and I; however, they’ve only stayed distant between my father and me.
My mother wants grandchildren, and both of my parents were ecstatic when I started dating Graham. My father deals with his father’s company often, and I know they had been making plans on being in-laws. Sloane’s father can’t stand my father and vice-versa. I don’t know why, but they’ve never been able to be cordial to each other.. Another reason my father didn’t want us to be married.
I smooth down my cream pencil skirt and adjust the straps of my deep purple tank top before I put on my matching cream blazer. My feet are encased in pale pink, sling back, four-inch-high heels.
My outfit screams that I’m together, my face looks completely opposite of that. I don’t have time to worry about my face a second longer. Hurrying downstairs, I slip into my garage and start my car, with only twenty minutes to make it to the restaurant. It’s going to be a time-crunch, that’s for sure.
The restaurant is bustling, but I spot my father immediately. I ignore the hostess’ wide eye’s when she sees my cheek, and hurry past her to my father’s table.
“Father,” I say as I remove my blazer and sit down.
“Sloane do that to your face?” he asks immediately as I adjust myself in my chair and place my napkin at my lap.
“No, Graham did.”
“Don’t lie to me. I know all about Sloane’s father and his heavy hand. No surprise his son is cut from the same cloth. I know that you and he met up at Kipling’s graduation party,” he states coolly.
I’m not surprised that he knows. He was probably watching me from across the room the entire time—my every move.
“We did have a discussion, yes, but Graham did this to my face when I refused to go home with him. Sloane has never hit me.”
“Why didn’t you go home with Graham? He is your fiancé,” my father says accusingly.
“Graham is not my fiancé. I actually don’t wish to see him any longer. Not that it’s your business, but I’m not attracted to him,” I announce.
“Who gives a shit if you’re attracted to him? You’re old, Imogen. No man in our social circle would take you at the age you are. You’ve got one unsuccessful marriage beneath your belt, everybody thinks you’re sterile, and you’re lucky a man with such impeccable breeding like Graham is even considering taking you,” my father snorts as he lifts his hand to call over the waiter.
I listen to my father order, for us, and then shoo the waiter off. I didn’t even hear what he ordered, knowing it wouldn’t matter. I’m not planning on staying here long enough to eat.
“That wasn’t nice, father,” I whisper. “Sloane and I, we have our own set of issues, but we never tried for children, so I’m fairly certain that I’m not infertile.”
“Well, that’s good. At least you might be able to have children; but that window of time is narrowed as it is. That doesn’t negate the fact that you’re old, Imogen. Men my age have their children already, so you couldn’t secure yourself in a family with a man my age. Graham is your only hope.”
“I would rather be alone than be with Graham. Why are you pushing this so hard?” I ask.
“I’m not going to repeat myself again. Graham comes from a good family, much better than the man you married,” he grunts.
“I’m sorry to ruin all of your plans, but I won’t be marrying him, father,” I say standing firm. “Aside from the million other reasons why I don’t want him, I won’t be with a man who takes his anger out on me this way,” I say pointing to my bruised face as I stand. “I’ll see you at your summer party in a few weeks,” I state before I turn and walk away.
I’ve never turned my back on my father in the middle of a conversation, and I can feel his narrowed, heated gaze on my back with each step I take, but I refuse to allow that conversation about Graham.
It’s over with, finished.
There is no Imogen and Graham, and there never will be. To be honest, there never really was. I tried, but there was always something lacking, either in me, or him, I’m not sure—but I know one thing is for certain, I don’t want him.
It doesn’t take me long to get home, and I’m grateful for the lighter traffic of the mid-afternoon. I make my way inside and kick off my shoes in the mudroom before I bend down to gather them in my hands.
Slowly, I make my way upstairs and change out of my luncheon clothes and into a pair of soft, faded holey jeans, and an oversized Notorious Devils shirt before throwing my long hair into a pony-tail.
The shirt is Sloane’s, and it’s a complete comfort piece. I used to wear it when I wanted to feel close to him, when he would be gone or I just missed him in general. It’s probably stupid, but I don’t have much to grasp onto when it comes to Sloane, so this shirt, I’m keeping it close to me—forever.
Making my way downstairs, I freeze when my doorbell rings. With a frown pulling at my lips, quietly as I can, I walk over to the door and look through the peephole. I expect to see Graham standing on the other side, but what I don’t expect is Sloane. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, looking almost nervous as he shifts from side to side in his boots.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as I open the door, my eyes trained on his green ones.
“What in the fuck happened to your face, Imogen?” he barks as he barges past me into my living room.
After closing and locking the door, I turn around to see him standing in the living room, his angry gaze on me, his jaw clenched and his balled fists resting on his hips, waiting for an answer. I inhale a deep breath before opening my mouth to speak, but he can’t stand waiting.
“He do that to you?” he asks as his arms move and hang loosely at his sides, attempting to appear relaxed, although he’s anything but.
“After the party,” I admit with a nod. “I broke it off with him.”
His eyes narrow, “He hit you because you broke up with him?”
“Graham assumed I was breaking it off with him because you were back,” I state. “The driver held him back once we were in front of my house. I ran inside and set the alarm.”
“Fuck,” he bites. “Why didn’t you call me?”
I look up and into his eyes, which are focused on me and still angry; but I have a feeling he’s as much angry with me right now as he is with Graham, and that pisses me off.
“Why would I call you?” I huff.
“Maybe because I’m your husband, and it’s my job to protect you, and he fucking hit you,” he roars.
I jerk back as though he’s the one who’s just hit me and stare at him, my mouth agape before anger builds inside of me.
Fuck. Him.
“Your job is to protect me?” I say with harsh laughter.
“Imogen,” he hisses, his tone one of warning.
“No, really, explain to me how you’ve protected me? Were you protecting me while you were high as a kite, fucking whores, and I was home alone? I mean, I’m curious as hell,” I say, crossing my arms under my breasts.
“I never hit you,” he grinds through clenched teeth.
“No, that was the one shitty thing you never did. But you cheated on me, probably more times than I could even count,” I say, tipping my head to the side and watching as his eyes cloud over, knowing I’m right.
In a flash, he’s in front of me, one hand gently cupping my bruised cheek, the other clamped firmly around my waist. His thumb traces my bruise, and his lips are so close they’re almost touching mine when he speaks.
“I’ll kill him for marking you, sunshine,” he whispers.
It’s as if all of the breath has left my lungs. They burn and my eyes sting as they water. Peace washes over me, as though my body suddenly feels warm and safe in his arms.
I swallow the lump in my throat and try not to cry. I feel like I can finally breathe for the first time since Graham’s hand lashed out against my cheek. I’m safe. I won’t admit that he’s right, that he makes me feel safe and protected—but right now, I do feel just that.
Then his words repeat in my head and my breath is lost for a while other reason—Sunshine. A name he hasn’t called me in at least ten years. As much as I love it, I hate it at the same time.
“Sloane,” I warn.
“Baby, I don’t give a fuck what kind of bitchy attitude you threw at him. A man doesn’t put hands on a woman, especially not my woman. My cum was still inside your pussy and he hurt you,” he rasps.
I fight to get out his grasp, but he only holds me tighter. If I don’t fight him right now, that blanket of safety will consume me completely, and I’ll give in to him—again.
“I’m not yours,” I growl.
“My name’s on your body, my ring on your finger, and you have my last name. I explained this shit to you; makes you one hundred percent mine, Genny,” he growls right back at me.
“We don’t work, Sloane. I’m not yours, and the divorce is happening,” I practically plead. I need him to release me, he makes me feel way too much.
I watch as his eyes alight with humor and he laughs, his voice deep as it washes over me. Dammit, I love it. I hate that I love it, too. His scent, his warmth coming from his body, and then his damn laugh makes my body feel hot. Not to mention the way the rough pad of his thumb gently runs over my bruised face over and over. It’s too much.
“We work, sunshine. We’ve always worked where it counts,” he rasps. “I was too fucking baked, searching for the next high, too fucked up in my head, to be any good to you before, but we work. We fucking work, baby.”
“What’s different now?” I ask, trying not to sound as breathless as I feel, staring up into his green eyes. “Why are you saying all of this? Why do you care?”
“I’m sober,” he says simply.
“Yeah? For how long?”
I watch as he bites his lip and studies me. Stupidly, my body wants all of him, right now. Saturday night was not enough. It’d been so long. Now that I’ve had a taste, I want more. I always want more when it comes to him. So much more.
As much as I should hate myself for it, I can’t—my heart has always wanted Sloane and nobody else. My body has always craved him, as though it can never get enough of him, no matter how badly he’s hurt me, time and time again.
“Can’t tell the future,” he states.
I feel supremely disappointed. It’s not the answer I wanted from him, but it’s probably more honest than the answer I crave.
“I can’t waste any more years,” I murmur. “I’m over it all.”
“Imogen?”
“I’m thirty-five, Sloane. I want a family. I’ve wanted a family for a long time. Graham was offering that to me, and I’m not going to lie, it was tempting. As my father says, I’m old, and nobody will want me anymore. I can’t help but feel that there’s something out there for me; but at the end of the day, I want a baby, and I want a husband who loves me,” I admit.
I feel as though a weight has been lifted off of my chest just by saying the words out loud.
“But you don’t want those things with me?” Sloane asks, taking a step back from me and dropping his hands from my body. That fear climbs up my throat again, threatening to choke me just at the loss of his hands on my skin.
“I waited for those things for years, Sloane,” I whisper.
“I can’t just let you go, knowing you’ll be going to another man. Not when you’re right here, wearing my old Devils shirt—not when you’re still mine,” he rasps. Without another word, he closes the distance between us and crashes his lips against mine. “Not when my sunshine is still inside, burning. Not when my stupidity didn’t completely extinguish that flame.”
Lifting my hands, I place my palms on his chest to push him away, but he’s solid and doesn’t even move a millimeter. Sloane’s tongue tastes my lips as his hands wrap around my ass and squeezes me roughly. I moan, and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth.
His stroke his firm and warm, and I can’t help but think about the stroke of his cock as his tongue takes over. One of his hands slides up my back and tangles into my ponytail as he twists my head to the side to deepen our kiss. He groans before nibbling on my lips and then presses his forehead to mine.
“Don’t walk away from me, sunshine,” he whispers.
“Too much has happened between us for this to work out,” I say, my voice trembling.
“We’re too good together for it not to work.”
Closing my eyes, I admit, “I’m tired of hurting.”
I’ve never admitted to Sloane how much his actions hurt me. I’ve always withheld sex or acted like a bitch to him, but I’ve never come right out and told him how his actions truly affect me. I’m not the same person I was three years ago, and I’m willing to admit the truth to him now. He needs to know.
When he went away, I felt free. I took a good two-years to work on me, to reflect and really examine the woman I had become. I hated myself, and that wasn’t all because of him, it was me too.
I’m definitely not the same woman as the one he left three years ago; and yet, I’m not much different, either. I’m still vulnerable and scared, strong and independent—except now, I want to voice my feelings rather than bottle them up.
I’m tired of hurting.
Genny’s words ring in my ears as I press my forehead against hers and just breathe. I did this to her. Nobody but me. I hurt her. I knew I did, and yet I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. And had I not been locked up, I wouldn’t have stopped.
“I’ve worked on myself for the past three years, done a lot of soul searching, and I want it all, Sloane. But I don’t know if you can give it to me,” she murmurs against my lips. My chest aches at the pain in her voice and the accuracy of her words.
I don’t know if I can give her everything, either.
But I’m not about to let another man give it to her.
I’m a selfish fuck, and Imogen is mine.
So, I take another deep breath and give her the words she needs to hear.
“I won’t hurt you anymore, sunshine,” I lie. I’ll hurt her. It’s inevitable—I don’t know how not to.
“Sloane,” she moans, sounding pained.
I move my hands, sliding one underneath her shirt, and then shove it down her jeans to cup her ass and squeeze her soft flesh. The other hand I move up her side, beneath the shirt, and wrap it around her ribs, sliding my thumb over her nipple from the outside of her bra.
“You’re mine, Imogen,” I remind her. Her body trembles against me.
When her eyes meet mine, I know she’s relented, like she always does. I give one more squeeze at her tit and her ass before I release her. I then reach down and pick her up by her thighs before I carry her to bed.
“And I’m going to show you right now, just how mine you fucking are.”