Page 117 of Sinners Reunion

My brain goes to war, with one side fighting for King and the other side telling me it really might be my turn to show King what it feels like to wake up to an empty bed after sleeping with the porch light on.

Yeah, all those dreams of ending up with him are kind of sliding down the drain right now. He wasn’t falling in love with me. Grantham Carter loves no one but himself. He was only doing what womanizing, deadbeat assholes do—fucking around until something breaks, and then cutting bait.

Fuck. Him.

I fold up the letter for real this time. I don’t need to keep going. King couldn’t have gotten these letters until after they’d been hurtled over the canyon edge, so he couldn’t have merely read what was penned on that paper, then repeated it. He knew what to say to Ezra because he’d already said it.

King is Daddy fucking Carter.

Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and my stomach clenches. A wave of sickness pulses through me, starting in my abdomen and radiating outward. I love him, and now I can’t. I don’t even care that I lost the bet. I love him, and now I have to let him go.

The lid slides back onto the box with a quiet hiss. I place my hands on top and just stand here for a moment. I was right when I said the ground was shifting. It’s sand under my feet, and the tide is coming in. I can’t fucking swim. Now I can’t fucking breathe.

He wanted me to stay. Didn’t he? Wasn’t that real?

Or . . . is he simply trying to bring about the next generation of Carter children? Well, fuck that. I’d attach a permanent lidocaine drip straight to my precious clit before I’d let any man knock me up. Considering my murdery extracurriculars, pregnancy is the last fucking thing I ever need to think about.

The RV door swings open. My eyes widen, but I manage to snatch the box from the counter by the lid. I turn away from King as he steps into the space, brushing a towel through his hair.

Unfortunately, I turn a little too hard, and when I said I snatched the box by the lid, I mean that very literally. Combine those two things, and you have a mess. Letters scatter across the RV. The box scoots sideways and smacks against the closet door, and I’m left holding the lid. My shoulders rise up to meet my ears as I envision King’s disappointed face behind me.

I hate it when he gives me his disappointed face.

Dude, maybe I do have daddy issues.

“Josie,” he says, and I can’t tell if that was gravel or growl in his voice just now. Either way, goosebumps rise on my skin.

I turn to face him, lid held out like some sort of shield. But when I see his face, when I realize that he isn’t mad at all, I drop my arms to my sides and try to rationalize what I’m looking at.

Because King stands before me, and he doesn’t look mad that I’ve been snooping through his things and discovering his super-secret identity. He doesn’t look like he’s three seconds from wringing my neck until I resemble one of those honking chicken toys. On the fucking contrary.

As King stands before me, with his hands at his sides and a towel at his feet, he looks like he’s about to cry.

“Josie,” he says again, and this time I know it’s gravel. He’s breaking on the inside, and it pains him to say my name.

“Are you Grantham Carter?”

He takes a step toward me, but I match it by taking a step back.

I straighten my spine. “Answer me.”

“I planned to tell you everything. I swear it.”

“Why?”

He runs his hands through his hair. “Because you deserve to know.”

“And they don’t?” I motion toward the window. “I think they deserved a helluva lot more than just knowing who their fucking dad is, though. Like maybe every other weekend and a week or two in the summer?”

“You don’t understand. There’s more to it than you realize.”

“Then help me understand. Tell me why I should ever let you touch me again after you abandoned those women and children.”

His chest rises and falls beneath a cobalt-blue t-shirt as he unleashes a heavy sigh. I’m disgusted with myself for noticing the way the shirt’s color sets off the steel in his eyes. I’m disappointed in myself for hoping he can actually do as I suggested and make this make sense. I want there to be some reason I don’t have to hate him.

I just don’t see how that’s possible anymore.

He motions toward the bed. “You might as well have a seat. If you want to make any sense of it, I’ll have to start from the beginning.” He licks his lips and folds his arms over his chest. “We’ll start with the experiment.”