Page 43 of Craving Consequences

LACHLAN

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I’m a shit father.

I was never cut out for the task, especially at sixteen when I could barely wipe my own ass. But that’s what you get for having sex. That’s the risk when you’re stupid and all your brain can process is fucking the hottest girl in school one time before leaving.

But I stepped up.

I tried. I got a job and every penny I earned was sent to Ashley. I didn’t ask my parents for help. I didn’t tell Ashley to contribute. I supported my kid from across the country until I was old enough to pack up and go back.

I married Ashley when her parents said I had to.

I got us an apartment and worked three jobs to keep them happy, but it wasn’t enough.

I was working too much. Not enough. I was too tired to spend time with Bron when I got home.

I was neglectful when I’d doze off watching the same six TV shows he loved after a fifteen hour shift.

When Mom got sick and Dad needed help, the opportunity was too good .

Or maybe I was a selfish coward, running from the judgment of her parents.

Her mom’s constant reminders that I was failing as a man. How I was nothing like her niece’s husband who spoiled his wife and gave her a lavish lifestyle with nannies and a cook.

Or her dad’s disapproval of such a worthless kid knocking up his daughter.

Maybe it was when their bitter, poisonous words started spilling from Bron’s mouth like it was gospel and Ashley would laugh.

No. It was none of those things. I don’t run because people are mean to me. I had a job and I was determined to see it through.

What hit my breaking point was catching Ashley in our bed with the guy from across the hall.

It was coming home to Bron scrambling off the sofa and yelling, “Dad, you’re home!

” at the top of his lungs. His enthusiasm would have been endearing, except he was never excited to see me.

More so was the fact that he grabbed my hand and demanded we go get ice cream.

The silence of the apartment had me asking about his mother. She should have been home. His vague response about a migraine had me eyeing the closed door.

The irony of it all isn’t that she was sleeping with another guy for a whole year, but that he wasn’t her first and Bron knew about that. That he kept it quiet .

Kept watch ... in exchange for Pokémon cards.

I try to remember if I even felt betrayed at that point. I remember annoyance. I remember thinking I wasn’t surprised. But it’s all a blur as I packed up and went to Van’s.

For a week, Ashley and everyone she knew blew up my phone calling me every name in the book for abandoning my wife and kid. When I finally answered her mother and told her why I left, my answer was, “Mistakes happen. You can’t expect a woman not to have needs when you don’t show her affection.”

I didn’t forgive Ashley. I never will. But I needed a fresh start because I couldn’t afford a lawyer.

I needed to get away from all the people justifying her actions, but I needed to build a bridge with my kid.

If I left Ashley, I would never see Bron again.

He hated me already. If I waited until he was an adult, we’d never get our footing.

I moved us to Jefferson.

Maybe a mistake. Ashley lasted a year before she took Bron and went back to her parents, proving them right; I wasn’t a good provider, husband or father. Even less so when I refused to go back with them.

She called me every name in the book — neglectful, a shit dad who abandoned his family and let them starve. I was manipulative, using this to punish her. Was it any wonder she had to find other men when I wasn’t satisfying her.

Truth .

In the eight years of marriage, we fucked once. I was drunk. She was there with her hand down my pants. I hated myself afterwards. Didn’t touch alcohol again while we were together.

Staying with her when she blatantly lied to me, trapped me — trapped us both — was out of sheer resolve to do my best with Bron.

So, I did neglect her. That was my fault. But touching her repulsed me on a level I couldn’t bear without feeling my stomach churn.

And that made me a God awful husband. A failure on both ends. It’s why, even after the divorce, I could never bring myself to marry, have a serious relationship or have more kids. It’s why I don’t deserve Everly. Why, if I fall short of what she deserves, I’d never forgive myself.

Still, I did fail her, too.

I put a child into the world that disrespected her. Hurt her. Scared her. He used her and belittled her. I let her down.

I pull up Van’s driveway. All notions of getting a head start evaporating as I park and wait for the other man to shove open his door.

“I’ll pick you up in five,” I tell him.

With a nod, he hops out and sprints down the driveway to the front porch .

Leaving him behind to change, I pull back and turn down the street to my house with Everly a still figure beside me. Only the squeak of window wipers fill the silence, yet there is a tide of words rising up my throat, things I can’t say without damning us both.

It’s a small mercy Everly understands. She gets it. She knows we can never do the thing we did last night again no matter how much we both want it.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her as I cut the engine.

She gives me a nod and watches me slide out. I slam the door, head ducked against the onslaught. My barely dried clothes are drenched all over again as I sprint up the front steps and rush inside, leaving a trail of water behind.

He can’t stay.

The thought rotates through my mind as I stalk into my bedroom.

I am not keeping someone in my house who can behave like that. Someone who ... what even would he have done if she let him in? Would he have hit her? Screamed at her? For what? Because she wouldn’t answer his calls? Because she wouldn’t open the door?

No, I may not have raised him or done a good job of it, but I will not support this. I won’t let him continue to punish Everly because he’s mad at the world .

Dragging on a fresh top and jeans, I bunch up the sleeves and stalk down the hall. I shove open Bron’s door and stop on the threshold.

I have never been allowed inside. Bron hated when I invaded his privacy. But his wants mean nothing as I march inside.

It’s remarkably neat. Practically sparse with a tidy desk under the window with a computer, a bookshelf of books and a stereo and his bed. The only rumpled thing in the space; I imagine he’d bolted out the second he got Everly’s text.

Ignoring it, I move to the closet and yank open the sliding doors.

My gaze lands on the hockey bag shoved into one corner, forgotten.

The sight of it has my hands hesitating as I remember how much he loved playing hockey.

It was the only time I truly saw him happy, until Ashley slept with his coach and got him kicked off the team when his wife found out about the affair. Bron never played again.

But I grab the bag and drag it out. I nearly have a heart attack when I turn to find a figure in the doorway.

“Everly.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “What are you doing?”

She’s wet.

Not soaked. But just damp enough to make my cock hard. Her hair is shiny coils around her small face. Her T-shirt clings to the mounds of her breasts and curls at the hem slightly to reveal a stretch of skin above the waistband of her cut-off shorts.

Fuck if she doesn’t look like the start of some racy adult movie.

“Sorry,” she whispers, eyes a little too dark and focused on my face. “I wanted to see you.”

The bag drops at my feet with a clatter of sticks and padding. I don’t remember letting it go, but I’ve already forgotten all about it.

“Did you need something?”

The way her throat muscles flex, I don’t know if I want to hear it. But I’m dying to hear it.

“I ... I used to...” she breaks off. Even in the dim film of light barely filtering through the blinds, I can see her reservation. Feel the heat burning her cheeks. “I have a ... a fantasy I think about sometimes. Mainly at night.”

She stops and I’m so fucking hard I can’t think over the roar of blood between my ears.

“What kind of fantasy?” Because I’ll make it happen. I’ll do whatever she wants.

She edges deeper into the room. I don’t think she takes that many steps, but she’s in front of me, small and delicious and smelling of strawberries and rain .

“Can I suck you?” she whispers so low I nearly miss it. It’s only the brush of her fingers on my belt buckle that confirms I’m not losing my mind. “Here?”

I get no say when she’s already dragging the belt through the hooks and yanking my snaps open. My dick practically springs straight into her palms with excitement.

“Everly...”

Thought process vanishes with the descent of her falling to her knees in front of me. It’s a wisp of smoke with the first brush of her lips around my head. My low, tortured whine earns her eyes up to my face.

God, she’s perfect like this. Perfect with her pink lips sucking lightly on my cap, fingers curled around my shaft.

“This is your fantasy?” I choke out, transfixed by the sight of her kneeling before me, pressing kisses to my scorched flesh.

She only quirks her lips up on one side, impish and adorable.

I forget my question with the slow descent of her mouth taking my cock deep. Not too deep. She gets halfway before pulling back and repeating. Unhurried. Like we have all the time in the world. Like she can do this all day.

I’m in heaven. I don’t think anything can make this better when Everly reaches down and drags her top up over her head. The fabric is tossed aside, leaving her beautifully bare, except the lacy, white bra holding her tits to me like a pair of offerings.

I think I’m about to ask her what she’s doing but her hands are at her short snaps and her mouth is open and waiting to get filled.

I don’t think. I place my head against her bottom lip and sink in, groaning as she stiffens her lips and swirls her tongue down my shaft.

“Fuck, sweetheart...”