Page 12 of Perdition (Unchained Hearts #4)

EIGHT

Emily groaned, her head pounding, her mouth as dry as the Sahara, and her skin feeling so tight she assumed she’d been mummified the night before.

Her cell buzzed from the bedside table near her head.

That’s what had woken her up from her wine stupor.

How many bottles had she and Cheri decimated last night? Four? Five?

Ugh.

Licking her lips, she cringed at the taste of dead raccoon in her mouth—because it was like something had crawled into her mouth and died of leprosy.

She pressed her thumbs against her throbbing temples and attempted to remember what the hell happened last night—aside from all the drinking, that is.

Cheri refilled her wine glass and leaned back into the overstuffed arm of the couch, crossed one leg over the other, and pinned Em with her knowing gaze.

“I know you’re not ready to spill everything just yet. All I want to know right now is why you look like someone kicked your puppy with your favorite pair of shoes,” Cheri said, then took a sip of her wine. Waiting.

Cheri was good at that. When she wasn’t busting balls and breaking in new lovers, she was sipping wine, staring, and waiting. She’d always been like that; the calm and the storm.

Sighing, Em put her empty wine glass down but didn’t reach to refill it. Yet.

“Do you think I’m too old…too—too fat and worn out?” Em asked, hating how vulnerable and whiny she sounded, like a teenaged girl, desperate for validation.

Cheri’s wine glass stalled just before her mouth as she eyes widened, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline. Her lips thinned, then her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flaring.

Yeah, Em knew that look.

Cheri was pissed.

“What the absolute fuck, Emily Daisy Flowers!” Cheri barked. From Labradoodle to junk yard Rottweiler in a millisecond. “What the hell? Seriously?” She put her wine glass next to Em’s and turned her body until she was completely facing Em. She grabbed Em’s trembling hands, and squeezed.

Suddenly, the tears she’d been holding back for hours burst forth, spilling like a waterfall of anguish down her cheeks.

Apparently, waiting until the morning wasn’t happening, because the dam holding back all that pain, all that humiliation, had reached critical failure…just like her marriage.

“He doesn’t want me anymore, Cheri,” she sobbed, “he thinks he’s stuck with me.

I heard him with Sarah in his office. She was cooing and whispering and telling him that he was a catch, and that he had options!

And he said she was too young and beautiful to settle down, that she shouldn’t settle too soon or she’d be stuck.

And then—” she sucked in a breath that stuttered in her chest— “she said, ‘Like you,’ and…he agreed! He agreed , Cheri! He feels stuck with me! Twenty years with the same used up, old pussy, a body that’s more stretch marks than skin, saggy tits, wrinkles, and a post-baby belly that jiggles when I walk too fast! ”

Cheri growled. “That motherfucker,” she snarled past clenched teeth.

“If anyone is stuck, it’s you—single mom for years when he was overseas, the moral and emotional support of a goddamn petulant and moody as fuck MC president, business owner boss bitch, and a holy, hot damn cougar.

You should have left his ass behind once the kids left—clean break.

It isn’t like he’s even home anymore, right?

You changed the locks, babe, don’t let his profligate ass back in. ”

Em couldn’t help but sniffle a laugh at that.

Right. A cougar.

Probably one with a missing eye and a hindleg limp.

“You’re gorgeous, Emily!” Em rolled her eyes, but Cheri kept going.

“You are! You aren’t fat, my love, you’re curvy.

You have hips, tits, and ass—and more and more actual men with actual balls are coming forward to say that they love curves on their women.

Something thick and soft to hold on to while the pound into them.

Hell, there are actual social media accounts dedicated to hot dudes and thick chicks. Like a whole Insta trope.”

Huh. She’d have to add that to her algorithm, one that, until now, was mostly romance novel cover models, K-pop hotties, gardening influencers, Denzel Washington, and a few of her favorite rock bands from the 90s.

Sure, she could have included sexy bikers in her timeline scrolling list, but why look at them on her phone when she could just walk in on her sexy as hell husband in the shower and get all the sexy biker she could ever want?

Except…that hadn’t happened in so long, she couldn’t even remember it. And sex? Well, she hadn’t gotten a good dicking from her husband since right after the kids left for college.

When the hell had her marriage become a celibate one?

Her husband was an alpha, testosterone fueled biker badass…

so why wasn’t he banging her against every flat surface like he used to?

Even when the kids had been underfoot, they’d still found time to hide in a closet or the bathroom, and fuck so fast and hard, her knees gave out.

When the twins got old enough to know what their parents were doing, Em had learned to bite down the noise, to get her pussy obliterated with as little noise as possible—which was nearly impossible most of the time, because Mads was a freaking sex god.

Nine-inch dick, hips that thrust with power and precision, and a mouth and fingers that were lethal when applied to soft tissues—nipples, pussy, and clit.

But sexual soft tissue damage was like a fond memory long since gone off to die.

Maybe Mads is over having the same old…same old , she thought, hating it.

Sarah was young, like early twenties. No wrinkles, tight body, no real-life responsibilities that could drain her life force and kill her libido—she was a newborn filly compared to Em’s old gray mare, ready for the glue factory.

Finally, Em replied, “But I’m old ? —”

Cheri snorted, backhanding Em’s chest.

“Ow!” she snapped, rubbing the sore spot on her boob.

“You aren’t old, ya dumb bitch! You’re only thirty-six!

There are women out there right now, older than you, who’re still riding young bucks and having the time of their lives.

I mean, come on! Look at me! We’re the same fucking age, Em, and the last dick I rode I picked up from O’Malley’s where he’d been sipping his first beer. ”

Em’s mouth dropped open, not from shock but rather audacity.

“Wow, Cheri, you have no brain to cooch filter! That’s almost the same age as War!”

Cheri shrugged. “Bet he’s gettin’ some from those sexy, older college professors of his ? —”

Em gasped, then cringed, her lips curling in disgust.

“That boy looks just like his dad, so it wouldn’t surprise me if his As and Bs are from a little tab A into slot B action with Professor Pencil Skirt.”

Em recoiled. “That’s my son you’re talking about, you nasty bitch!”

Cheri chuckled. “Got your mind off your self-hating, death spiral, didn’t it?”

Once again, Em’s mouth dropped open as her words failed.

Damn the woman, she was right.

Flopping back against the couch, Em wiped at the tears that were now only slowly slipping down her face.

“Look, Em, why don’t you sip some wine, collect your thoughts, and we’ll actually do the deep stuff in the morning once you’ve had time to let things simmer.”

Wine and procrastination?

Sounded like a great idea!

Not such a great idea!

Groaning again, she pushed herself up on her elbow, reached for the phone, and snapped her eyes shut at the name flashing on the screen. When the phone buzzed again, she opened her eyes, squinting against the flood of daylight through the guest bedroom window.

Apparently, Sorsha had been calling all morning—and she wasn’t the only one.

There were calls from Warwick too, and, of course, from Frost.

She had a text from Nadia, two from Cilla, and a weird meme from Val—a cat flipping her the bird with the words, “Fuck mornings” blinking in glitter font over its head.

She snickered at that because—fuck that morning.

When the phone buzzed again, flashing Sorsha’s name, she heaved a sigh, closed her eyes, and answered.

“Hey baby,” she croaked.

“Mom! I’m like ten minutes out from the house—War called me,” Sorsha exclaimed, which meant both of her kids somehow knew what was going on.

Not a surprise; they were smart and perceptive as hell—they got that from her, of course. That and Mads had nearly got the cops called on him after his many attempts to get into the house using the incorrect key code.

Sorry not sorry!

Emily rolled over onto her back and let out a breath.

“I’m at your aunt’s house,” Emily replied.

Sorsha hummed, then remarked, “That means you’re both hungover.”

Lord, that girl knew too much about her mom and aunt’s shenanigans.

“I’ll stop by No.27 on my way,” Sorsha said, immediately making Em’s stomach grumble.

The mom-and-pop café, No.27 Cafe, was a local coffee house and lunch spot in Clarks Summit that offered the best in homemade foods, including all their breads and bagels.

Honestly, Em would live there if the owners would let her—their food was that freaking good!

“Breakfast sandwiches on sourdough, and café mochas?”

God, that sounded amazing. Cheri would agree…after she got over her pounding headache.

“Yeah, baby, that would be wonderful.”

From the college to Cheri’s house, the café was out of the way, but Em, Cheri, and Sorsha would all agree it was worth the inconvenience.

Also, giving back to a local small business always felt good, especially since Em, as a small business owner herself, knew just how special the community was.

Did it matter that the café was connected to a rather popular flower shop owned by the same family?

No. Competition was healthy, so Em didn’t mind giving them their due.

Also, Central Park Flowers helped her out a few times when she was low on certain blooms for wedding bouquet arrangements.