Chapter 63 Max
Max
Three days, seventeen hours, and thirty-four minutes left.
Across from where I'm sitting on the outdoor sofa, nursing my whiskey neat and pretending I don't know the minutes until I am forced to leave her, I watch as my brothers, Ben Slater, and Konnor attempt a game of rugby.
Too bad they can't get through ten minutes without arguing over the fundamentals of 'holding the ball.
' It's in the name, dickheads. But Bronson just hates letting that fucker go.
He's shit at following the rules in sports; such a trait applies to all aspects of his life.
I fix my eyes on Toni, Aurora, Felicity, and Stacey as they stand by the grassed area, watching the men play. There might as well be four women up there with the way Toni carries on. I like the guy. I don't pretend to understand him, but I like the way he adores Cassidy.
"Let's let Konnor make the calls, hey? He's the only professional on the grass." Xander yells out to me, "The other is sitting on his arse."
I scoff, taking a sip of my whiskey.
Konnor glares at me and I grin at him, tempted to call him my brother-in-law just to watch him squirm.
He'll never like me. Not that I blame him. If Cassidy was my little sister, I wouldn’t like me either.
I would have ripped my arms off by now, but Konnor plays at being tough when he's actually just as big of a pussy as his father.
To my left, Victoria natters to Renae Slater. The two women are worlds apart in every aspect. Fuck knows what they have to talk about. My son, perhaps. I clench my teeth, well aware I'm not good at sharing and yet being forced to learn how to every day.
Renae projects a smile as Victoria drawls on about something.
I find myself wanting to rescue Cassidy's sweet mother from the claws of the woman who birthed me, but I don't. If Renae is anything like her daughter, she can handle her own.
What must she think of me, having stolen her baby girl away and made her mine in every way?
My wife... I feel fire in my chest when I say that word—wife. I never knew how much I would enjoy the way it rumbles with authority from my tongue. My wife.
My wife giggles with Blesk, wearing the same pretty white dress that she wore three hours ago when she became my most precious possession. Most girls would hate being referred to as a possession, but not my wife. She knows it's a damn fact.
I am hers.
She is mine.
My face feels tight as I scan the backyard.
White fairy lights drip from every tree.
The sun hits the canal, creating ribbons of silver on the rippling surface.
I woke this morning wanting to spend most of the day in bed.
Inside my wife. Instead, I was coaxed by her lovely lips to have a small reception.
"For our family," she begged. Then pouted.
Then dropped to her knees and sucked me so good I would have said yes to just about anything she asked.
At least she allowed me to keep her all to myself for the ceremony—us and a priest.
But if she wants to do it all again when I get out, a big wedding like she deserves, I'll do it. Then. Just not now. My time is short, and I don't want to waste it with my eyes on anyone else besides her. I need my fucking fill.
I set my whiskey down, aware that I'm being a fucking arsehole for not getting up and being charming. But the sight of our two families making a show of how it will work while I'm away feels a lot like a grater on my skin. I should like the view or appreciate it at the very least. I suppose I do.
But when I glare across at them, my awareness of my jealousy spreads through me like blood stains on a shirt. They have a future. In three days, seventeen hours, and thirty-one minutes, they will still be... this. Just as they fucking are. Unchanged. Unaffected.
And they'll have her.
They will be able to watch her mouth move when she speaks silly words. Watch her pick at her nail polish when she's nervous. Watch the blush of her cheeks when she's embarrassed.
They'll watch my son grow inside her.
Hold him the day he's born.
Growling, I push up from the outdoor sofa and move into the house. Move away from the scene of happiness being thrown in my fucking face.
"Hey." Cassidy's voice stills me. She rounds me until she is standing between me and the sliding door. Big, golden-hazel eyes gaze up at me with a question. I reach for her hand, lifting it to my lips and kissing her fingers.
"Are you okay?" she says as my lips touch her.
I stare at the new rings on her hand. My territory tagged with these two platinum bands.
Her engagement ring is a gem cut for royalty.
Her petite, slender fingers appear even smaller beneath the size of that rock.
While I'm away, I'll hold on to the vision of the way it sparkles as she strokes my cock.
"Max?"
I shift my gaze up to meet her eyes. "Do you like the ring?"
She smiles nervously. "Where are you right now?"
"Here."
Lifting onto her tippy toes, she kisses my neck, and it's such a gentle chaste show of affection, that it burns my chest.
I miss this already.
Clearing my throat, I place my palm on the soft white skin of her cheek and drag my thumb possessively along her pink lower lip. Following my thumb with my gaze, I watch as her tongue lightly touches the tip, watch as she draws in weighted breaths and—
My eyes snap to hers again. "Don't fucking touch anyone else with these lips."
She sucks a sharp breath in. "Max."
I straighten. "I'm just getting another drink, Little One.
" I tap her little nose and she smiles softly in response.
It is a sad little smile though, and it screws with my head.
I fucking hate that I just said that. Hate that I felt the need to.
Hate the bullshit inside me wreaking havoc with the constant reminder of how I won't be here to touch her, smell her, fuck her when she needs to come. ..
Keep her safe.
Walking past her, I keep my head high and move with purpose towards the billiard room to find Butch's Gold Label.
When I enter, I'm thrown by the scent of cigar smoke. Butch is sitting in the corner of the room, fixated on the translucent brown liquor in his glass as he swirls it around.
"I haven't seen you today," I mention gruffly, coming to a stop. "Aren't you going to celebrate with us?"
He doesn't look up. "My son is losing three years of his life. I don't feel much like celebrating."
I sigh jaggedly, but appreciating the bitter honesty. We really are so alike.
"I was so fucking close to giving her what she wants." I shake my head at the bullshit that just expelled from me, at myself for being pitiful. A man can either be powerful or pitiful, but he can never be both.
"Max, sit with me for a moment."
Frowning at him, I contemplate snatching the whiskey and heading back to my wife, smiling at her family, and kicking Konnor's arse in rugby. But I stroll over and position myself on the red leather chair opposite Butch instead, giving myself some time away from the false cheer.
Smoke fills the space between us, the cigar he just blunted out still snaking a line of grey into the air.
Cracking his fists, he alleviates some of the ache.
I know that his years of boxing have left him with arthritis in his knuckles.
They have started to tremor, but I would never admit to noticing such deterioration.
I wonder how much worse it'll be when I get out.
He leans forward onto his knees. "You're not alone in there, son."
Mashing my teeth together, I try not to feel anything.
He fixes me with his stern gaze, and the fucking pain in his eyes twists something deep inside me. They scream at me. Scream that he failed me. I see remorse and regret shadowing those worn blue irises. And it's a look so foreign, I barely recognise him.
"There are lots of our men in there," he states, his eyes telling.
"And they will follow you. Keep your head in the moment.
Don't let your guard down for anyone. Don’t be loose with your temper.
Save it. Save it for the right moments." He pauses and I try to relax my shoulders.
"And son... you have to forget about Cassidy when you're in there.
Her memory will only bring you torment and make you weak. "
All true. Too true. I'm not prepared to admit to anyone, especially not my wife, that I have been preparing myself to enter the chaos since the moment I found out I was royally fucked.
Prison isn't safe for anyone. Someone like me though, with my family name and reputation, it could be fatal.
I know this. And by the darkness and despair in Butch's reddened blue eyes, he clearly fucking knows this too.
Looking down at my finger, the tattoo I have in lieu of an actual wedding band still raised and red, I'm reminded that I only need one thing to make it out intact. "Look after my wife," I murmur, my voice deep with self-loathing.
"Don't think about her right now."
"I said, look after my goddamn wife!" I roar, slapping the table with my palm and levelling him out with narrowed eyes.
He leans back in his chair, the leather protesting beneath his weight. "I will."
"No." I smile contemptuously, feeling fucking sick of the bullshit, wanting to rip the walls he put up between us down.
The walls he built around himself and made us build around ourselves to keep us emotionally impenetrable.
From being victims. From being gentle. Open and raw and fucking vulnerable.
I want to take my fists to those walls. "Not like you look after Victoria.
Not like you look after your own fucking sons.
Goddamn it, Dad. Look. The fuck. After her! "
Dad.
He nods his head firmly. "You have my word, son."