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Everything goes to shit just after 6:00 p.m., though, and I seriously reconsider taking up drinking again even though I gave up alcohol four years ago.
The four of us are sitting in the lounge room laughing over a story Tatum is sharing about something she and Monroe did when they were younger. After she finishes telling the story, I move off the couch. “I’m gonna go get dinner ready for your drunk asses.”
Mum reaches for my hand as I walk past her. “Baby”—she slurs the word—“I don’t think I can eat anything. I’m vomit if I do.”
Laughing, I say, “I’m vomit?”
She waves me away. “Ugh, I’m gonna vomit if I eat. I swear I should not eat.”
“Me either,” Tatum says. “I’m not as bad as Lil, but still.”
“Oh, trust me,” Holly says, “you are as bad as Mum. You’re vomit too if you eat.”
Mum tries to deny her drunken state again and I leave them to it, heading into the kitchen. I’ve just reached it when the front door bangs closed and King and Fury walk into the kitchen.
The air is sucked from my lungs as I lay eyes on Fury. His face is a mess of bruises and cuts, one arm has a long bandage on it that I’m sure must cover a nasty wound, and he’s walking like it kills him to lift his legs.
“Where’s Lily?” King demands.
“In the lounge room, but”—I grab his arm to stop him when he turns to leave the kitchen—“she’s drunk. And I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for you to go in there.”
“Why?” It’s a bark. Definitely not a good idea for him to go in there.
“It seems she’s reached her limit with you. Her words, not mine.” At the clench of his jaw, I add, “I know you’ve got a lot of bad shit going on, King, and trust me when I say the very last place I wanna be is in the middle of your marriage, but something’s gotta give. As in, you’ve gotta give something. She’s struggling after her hysterectomy and all the emotional shit of losing the baby, and I’m pretty sure you are, too. But struggling separately is not good. You’re gonna have to find a way to do it together if your marriage is going to survive.”
His dark eyes bore into mine as he works his jaw again. “You finished?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
With that, he turns and leaves, a wild gush of dark energy.
“Jesus,” I mutter, yanking the fridge door open, eyeing Fury. “Does he ever listen to anyone?”
“Not often,” he says, coming closer to me until he’s standing where he shouldn’t. Too fucking close.
Grabbing the salad out I prepared earlier, I bring my attention to his face. “That looks sore.” My gaze drops to his arm. “That too.”
He places a finger to my chin and lifts my face back up to his. “You look good, princess.”
Holy too fucking much.
I want to tell him never to touch me, but I can’t bring myself to say the words.
I like him touching me.
So instead, I say, “You do too. Well, except for all these cuts and bruises and that limp you’re walking with.” My voice lowers with worry as I ask, “Are you okay?”
He drops his hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good.” Then, checking out the salad I’ve placed on the counter, he says, “You still don’t eat meat?”
I think his idea of good and mine must be different, but I don’t mention that. “I’m vegan now.”
“Still against coffee?”
I shake my head at his smart-ass question while also struggling not to smile. “I’m a vegan, tea-loving teetotaller these days.”
He whistles low. “You gave up booze, too?”
“Yeah.” I turn serious. “I had to find other coping strategies to deal with my shit.”
