Chapter 27
Jolie—present day
Ifound myself back at the kitchen island. . . the smell of daisies doing for me what they did for Woodrow, calming me as I read through the notes on his phone.
I started at the bottom. The first dozen or so were all Woodrow. I could tell without even seeing his name labeling the title. He liked easy writing—the simpler things in life.
I twisted a daisy in my fingers, using it as a distraction from the pain inside when I read over his prison experiences and how it felt to be out. To be free from a prison sentence, only to receive a death sentence instead.
I found a note from Woody next, and it was hard to understand. He didn't mention prison or the institution. He didn't speak of the cancer, probably unsure what it meant. He talked about Ollie, and how he'd stayed with him for a while, which I thought was slightly odd.
Hell took over next, as he often did. And, as always, he was angry. Enraged by the nightmares Woodrow suffered that made their shared body tired. Nightmares of abuse by inmates that he wasn't protected against, because Hell, was again, shut out. But this time, a pill was to blame for that.
He was angry at me, too, for leaving them behind and not testifying their innocence when Woodrow claimed the deaths of the Heaven family were in self-defense. Angry that I’d run off and left them, despite Woodrow telling me to do it.
He didn’t know I’d been kidnapped.
All Hell heard was his father, whispering of how I’d leave him as soon as I got the chance. And because I wasn’t around, for a while, that was exactly what he thought.
The next message was again from Woodrow, talking house plans that Ollie was helping with. Talking about bringing me home. Ollie was secretly helping him to track me down, but for whatever reason, the police were kept out of it. Woodrow left a personal note to Hell before closing his message.
. . .I'm getting her back. I'll need your help. I need this. I need her. . . and I need you to be better for her.
Over the next few messages, they argued back and forth, disagreeing over me.
But the deeper into their story I got, I learned Hell was dealing with more than he let on. Grief. Pain. Anxiety.
All caused by me.
Because he missed me.
Little things he said in the messages proved that.
Proved other things, too. . . he was in love with me. In some twisted way.
He started releasing his frustrations in a new way, through creativity and writing, and it pleased Woodrow. For a while, the notes on the phone were just them shooting ideas back and forth. Woodrow gave pointers and Hell created something beautiful for me. A story for me to read.
A dark and tragic love story, loaded onto my Kindle. . . and I was already in the middle of reading it.
Hell had written that for me.
And it melted my heart.
He'd also learned to dance, because he knew it would remind me of my father, and because apparently, according to these notes, Woodrow got stage fright. That brought a half smile to my lips, but that smile died a quick death when I realized I’d turned him down when he asked me onto the dance floor.
I read more, needing that thought replaced by something else he’d done for me.
And I found so much. The beauty room was Woodrow's idea.
He'd remembered my hopes and dreams. The white paint licked all over this house was a mutual agreement, but the pink touches were things Hell had taken in from Woodrow’s teenage diary entries. That brought another smile to my lips.
And so did everything else.
I slipped into the yard. Hell was still on the swing-set, still swinging away as I made my way to the rental car.
I wanted to walk over to him, run even. To grab his face and kiss him. To show him that I appreciated the little things about him, too, but I couldn’t. Not yet.
I needed the rest of the story, because I knew, with its dark undertones and feelings of twisted love, it was inspired by his feelings for me. The feelings the phone notes didn’t give me access to.
I popped the trunk, and the lid rose to block out the beauty of the moon filling the sky.
My Kindle was there, lonely on the trunk floor.
I grabbed for it and rushed inside, slamming down the trunk.
I didn't wait for Hell's anger to follow me inside, and that was a good thing, or I'd have been waiting all damn night.
Because he didn’t move from his position.
I stormed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and I rushed into the bedroom.
I turned on the Kindle and my eyes zoomed over the words I'd already read, freshening up the story in my mind.
I read on. I read through the forced marriage and the abuse that followed.
I read until evening turned to night outside my balcony doors.
Until a guy in the book—a better man—came to save the leading lady from her husband, stealing her away when things got rough, and it wasn't until the time in my book declined, that my suspicions were confirmed—they were the same man.
And both versions of him loved her. Even if one of them had no idea how to show it. And as the end neared and the story grew eerily familiar, I knew there'd be no happy ever after, because those she loved wouldn't be written on the last page.
This story was true. It was my life.
Tears had been bolting down my face for the last hour, and I barely dared to read the last chapter, but I pushed through . . .with regret.
More tears fell down my face, blurring the last words on the page, as they splashed down on the low-lit device.
One heart stopped beating and another broke.
And mine broke, too.
I sat and cried, emotion washing over me over the realization that I was about to lose everyone I'd ever known. The only boy I'd ever loved. Completely loved. I’d fallen harder this last day. And I knew I'd never get over us. Over him. . . them.
I flung the Kindle, with the screen now advertising its low battery, onto Woodrow's pillow, and I cried into mine.
A small voice disturbed me, along with the patting of feet against my hip.
Bushy was demanding attention, and I had no energy to give him.
He crawled to my face and screamed his little scream, slumping against me, his fluffy ass too close to my nose.
When he didn't move, I realized I hadn't fed him, and with Woodrow not around, no one had. He was probably low on energy, too.
I scooped him into my arms and carried him down to the kitchen. He talked a lot in his little cat voice on the short journey. I placed him on the island, not even caring about his ass on the surface, and I dished out some cat-friendly food onto a small plate that he'd claimed as his own.
I pulled a pretty pink gerbera from the vase, and I left Bushy to eat in peace, his small purr acting like music as I drifted from the room.
My feet sulked into a pair of fluffy slippers from the shoe stand. They looked like cats. Like Bushy.
I walked into the yard. The swing-set still swinging, Hell still on the seat.
“Hell?”
His shoulders raised as he took a stuttering breath. And I knew he was listening.
I walked to face him, and didn’t waste a second before I climbed onto his lap, my legs wrapping around his waist to secure us together.
“I read it all.”
“And?”
“And the Kindle book.” I knew he wanted me to read it, or he wouldn’t have told me where to find it.
“And?”
“And that's not how our story ends.”
My mouth landed on his, and I gave him the kiss he’d been waiting for all night. The kiss I’d been waiting for.
I stopped kissing him long enough to tell him, “But I did like the sharing scene out in the field, where the scent of daisies brought back her sweet lover and the wind took him away again, replacing him with someone else. With you. . . I want that. But only if you’re well enough to do this.”
“I’m doing this.”
“Then make me forget. Make me forget what’s going to happen. What has happened. Make all the pain go away. Just make me forget it all.”
He prevented me from saying more by his tongue entering my mouth, taking over and possessing the space. I welcomed it, enjoying the taste of whatever mint was dissolving on his tongue.
His hands became eager, pulling at my dress. He wasn’t gentle, wasn’t caring as he hiked it up over my hips. His fast fingers moved to his own clothes, and he managed to unzip his jeans with me on top of him.
He pulled his cock free and nudged the material of my underwear to the side with his knuckles. I helped by holding it in position for him, my other hand placed the flower behind his ear and moved to his shaft. He was already hard, and his prominent veins were digging into my palm as I fisted him.
I swallowed the puff of smoke that emanated from between his lips as he broke off our kiss to breathe easier.
I stalled, my hand on him going slack.
“Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” His eyes blinked twice. Very fast. Very needy. “Now, put my cock inside your pussy and make me come. It’ll be nice to have you do the work for once.” He laughed, sounding like his usual cruel self.
But I didn’t let that get to me, and it certainly didn’t deter me from following his orders. His fingers spread on my back, preventing me from falling as I angled myself backwards to put him inside me.
He looked down at me, at my legs spread around him. At his cock nearing my swollen pussy lips. At the moisture his dirty talk had pulled from me.
“Oh, fuck,” he mumbled, biting his lower lip and looking sexy as fuck while doing it.
His free hand pulled at my dress, ripping the thin material down the front. My small breasts fell out into his view, my nipples, pricked by the cold air, hardened and captured his gaze, stealing it from my wet pussy.
I slid his bell over my clit, and the little balls of steel sent a wave of pleasure through me.
“Fuck. . .” I whispered, doing it again and again and again. “Oh, God, I want you.”
“I am your fucking god.”