Home > Dirty Wedding(9)

Dirty Wedding(9)
Author: Crystal Kaswell

As soon as she hit puberty, yeah. That is accurate.

"You look all—" she draws a circle around my face. "Needy. Like you wish you went back to his place after dinner. And why did it end so early? Did he get fat?"

"No."

"Oh, so you wouldn't sleep with a fat guy?"

"Don't even."

"Then why?" She raises a brow. "Is he engaged now? Married? Does he want you to be the other woman?"

"I haven't seen him in forever."

"He booty-called. You answered. What gives?"

Is that really all he wants? Ten years to have his way with me? "We…" What can I tell her that isn't a lie? "I'm going to see him again tomorrow."

"Where? His apartment? His office? A bar? Will you have sex in the bathroom?"

"Hmm…" I press my finger to my chin. "Still none of your business."

She pouts. "All right, fine. But we're still going to celebrate." She claps her hands together. "Whiskey?"

"No."

She exaggerates her frown, then lets it fade to a smile. "How about gelato? The place down the street is open until eleven."

And they have a great pistachio. My favorite. "Gelato is perfect."

"Next time, come home after it's already closed, okay?"

I can't help but laugh. It's sweet, how much she wants me to get laid.

Weird. But sweet.

And I…

I want to say yes, but I have no idea what Ty has in store for me.

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

 

Ty

 

 

The second I arrive home, I finalize the details.

The contract on the way to the courier.

The wedding planner on retainer.

My assistant ready for the afternoon.

Paloma assures me Indigo is in good hands.

Still, I toss and turn.

I've never slept well. There was always something inside me, this fear I'd wake up to news my father was never coming home.

He was in the military and he was usually deployed.

In some foreign country, in a secret location, doing work he couldn't discuss.

When he was on leave, when he was home, smiling at my mother, taking me and Ian to football games, knocking back pints with friends—

That was the only time I slept well.

Then Ian enlisted and—

I thought I'd never sleep again.

My older brother. The man who raised me when my father wasn't around. The man who always knew what to do. Who knew how to talk to girls, fix the sink, cook Mum dinner.

I was only twelve when he enlisted.

I wasn't ready to be without him.

I wasn't ready to be the man of the house.

I wasn't ready to pick up slack for my mother when she was tired or overworked or lonely.

She did her best. She's a tough woman. Strong.

But it wore on her too. Her husband and her oldest son were off someplace risking their lives.

She tried to hide her loneliness. She tried to pretend nothing was wrong.

But everything was wrong.

Ian was away. My best friend, my older brother, my mentor—

He wasn't there.

When he and Dad were home, they tried to make up for lost time.

But there was never enough time.

Mom was the one who taught me to shave, knot a tie, talk to a girl I liked.

I was hopeless, honestly.

But it was okay.

I was used to being alone.

Loneliness was comfortable. Like an old pair of pants.

Maybe I wouldn't win an award for best dressed, but I felt like myself.

I didn't have to worry about saying goodbye. Tossing and turning. Swallowing that awful fear I'd lose someone forever.

I focused on school. Work. Football.

My teammates became my friends. I was good at football. I needed to win. I'd never cheat or sacrifice sportsmanship, but I'd practice for hours, memorize plays, run until my legs gave out.

People wanted to be around the star player.

Girls flocked to us.

I learned enough.

How to flirt, how to charm, how to explain what I wanted.

I discovered I had unusual tastes. Some part of me knew—I hadn't seen these things in films or television—but I had no idea how deep they went.

I tried to ignore my desires for a long time. Girls my age weren’t all that receptive to being tied up.

In university it was easier. Women wanted to experiment. We'd play for a few weeks or months then part ways. It was never long enough to earn their trust.

It was never long enough to develop a real intimacy.

I didn’t give in to what I wanted. Not completely. Not until I met Indigo.

But that was easier. Safer. I didn’t want to fall for someone. I didn't need the ache of distance or the pain of parting.

Even when Dad retired and Ian returned to London—

It was too late. The ache was too deep. My heart was too closed.

It was easier, having Dad home, starting a company with Ian.

Work kept me busy. Family dinners erased the loneliness.

Ian and I did well.

We made enough money women saw me as a dollar sign instead of a fun few weeks.

Dad died.

Ian divorced. Moved to the States.

I followed for the summer.

Met Indigo.

I keep thinking about that night.

The bar in midtown. The sunset behind us. Her almost black hair falling down her back.

The drive and determination in her deep blue eyes.

The silky lilt of her voice as she asked what I'd like to drink.

There was something special about her. I knew it the second I saw her.

Then I ran into her, at the fucking Museum of Sex, no less.

And the look she gave me. Bashful, curious, intense—

I knew I needed to have her.

But I had no idea how deep it went.

How much I'd crave her.

How much I'd miss her when I left.

Did I love her? I'm not sure.

The word wasn't in my vocabulary at the time. Until I met Rory and she—

It was easy.

I wasn't afraid of losing her.

I don't know why. Logically, it doesn't make any sense.

She was part of this world—money and manners and propriety.

She understood it in a way I didn't. Helped me navigate it.

She convinced me I could be the kind of man who wanted this life.

Now, I don't know.

But then, I believed it. I believed I could belong in her world of manners and propriety. I believed I could be a gentleman who made love, not a man who fucks like an animal.

For the first time in my life, I didn't feel an ache in my chest, a tension in my shoulders, an empty spot deep inside me.

Then one day, she woke up, and she didn't love me anymore.

I'm not sure how long she went, how many months she spent trying to fall back in love with me, trying to convince herself to stay.

Only the day she left.

The look in her eyes as she pressed the ring into my palm.

I'm sorry, Ty, but I don't love you anymore.

Like it hurt her more than it hurt me. Like she wanted, more than anything, to still love me.

She just couldn't.

And now—

I'm not capable of love. Not anymore.

I won't fall for Indigo.

But I can take care of her.

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