Read Online All I've Ever Wanted by Adrianne Byrd - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Adrianne Byrd
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mind cleared and she pulled her son against her chest. âIâm so sorry, sweetheart. I didnât mean to scare you.â She lowered her head to touch his.
âWere you having a bad dream?â he asked. His body trembled in her arms.
Her face felt damp. She lifted a shaky hand and felt the slick tracks of tears. It must have been a really bad dream. âItâs okay. Iâm fine now.â She frowned when the dream drifted just beyond the realm of recall.
âAre you sure? You were crying and calling my name.â He rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand. His mouth stretched wide in a yawn.
âCome on. Letâs get you back in bed.â
âMaybe I should sleep with you so you can feel safe.â
She laughed at the familiar quote. She used to tell him that whenever he had had a bad dream. âI donât think that will be necessary.â
âAre you sure?â He could barely keep his eyes open.
She smiled at his weary but unquestionable chivalry. âIâm sure.â
Â
Max jerked open the fridge and withdrew a beer. He popped the cap and placed the cold bottle against his forehead. He closed his eyes and prayed for sleep. But as usualâhis prayers had fallen on deaf ears.
He took a swig from the long-necked bottle and enjoyed the slight buzz he achieved from his fifth drink. Scratching the new stubble on his chin, he left the kitchen and returned to his La-Z-Boy.
Instead of reviewing his notes from the Underwood case, he reached for the silver frame that sat on the edge of the end table. He stared benignly at the small family smiling back at him.
Truth was, right now he didnât remember having that picture taken. He wasnât sure whether that was because of a bad memory or the effect of alcohol on an empty stomach. How old was little Frankie thenâtwo, three?
âMy, how time flies when youâre having fun.â He returned the photograph to the table. Problem was,he wasnât having much fun. He downed another long gulp, halfway wishing that this bottle would take him to oblivionâa place where pain didnât exist and nothing mattered.
He cursed under his breath. What was wrong with him? Oblivion was a temporary solution for a long-term problem. How on earth was he supposed to live with just seeing his son one weekend a month?
Max slid his gaze back to the picture, then narrowed his eyes at the woman who had ripped his heart out. Even sober he couldnât laugh at the memory of his once-upon-a-time yearning for herâdreaming and planning on happily ever after. It was sickening, really. Since then, willingness to trust or even love again had ranked in the bottom five hundred on his list of lifeâs ambitions.
Another gulp and he emptied the bottle. He was no closer to oblivion now than heâd been five hours ago. Better luck tomorrow night.
In the fireplace, the once roaring fire had been reduced to glowing embersâsuch was his life. He waved off self-pity and depression with a sweep of his hand and grabbed the manila folder.
As his eyes peeled over notes and facts, he wondered why Underwood had been killed, instead of who had done it.
He shifted his gaze back to the fireplace. The embers brought back an unexpected memory of a certain pair of eyes that held their own kind of spark.
He smiled to himself, then worried about the truth of his own warning. How much trouble was Kennedy St. James really in? Did she understand what she was up against?
He remembered her little boy and thought more on his own son. It didnât take much to understand why she wasnât talking; to be honest with himself, he really couldnât blame her. But he had a job to do, and that job was to get her to talk.
Chapter 10
A aliyah rubbed her tired eyes and continued to stare at her computer screen. At this point, she wished that she could take her coffee intravenously to avoid the trouble of getting up to fill her
âWere you having a bad dream?â he asked. His body trembled in her arms.
Her face felt damp. She lifted a shaky hand and felt the slick tracks of tears. It must have been a really bad dream. âItâs okay. Iâm fine now.â She frowned when the dream drifted just beyond the realm of recall.
âAre you sure? You were crying and calling my name.â He rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand. His mouth stretched wide in a yawn.
âCome on. Letâs get you back in bed.â
âMaybe I should sleep with you so you can feel safe.â
She laughed at the familiar quote. She used to tell him that whenever he had had a bad dream. âI donât think that will be necessary.â
âAre you sure?â He could barely keep his eyes open.
She smiled at his weary but unquestionable chivalry. âIâm sure.â
Â
Max jerked open the fridge and withdrew a beer. He popped the cap and placed the cold bottle against his forehead. He closed his eyes and prayed for sleep. But as usualâhis prayers had fallen on deaf ears.
He took a swig from the long-necked bottle and enjoyed the slight buzz he achieved from his fifth drink. Scratching the new stubble on his chin, he left the kitchen and returned to his La-Z-Boy.
Instead of reviewing his notes from the Underwood case, he reached for the silver frame that sat on the edge of the end table. He stared benignly at the small family smiling back at him.
Truth was, right now he didnât remember having that picture taken. He wasnât sure whether that was because of a bad memory or the effect of alcohol on an empty stomach. How old was little Frankie thenâtwo, three?
âMy, how time flies when youâre having fun.â He returned the photograph to the table. Problem was,he wasnât having much fun. He downed another long gulp, halfway wishing that this bottle would take him to oblivionâa place where pain didnât exist and nothing mattered.
He cursed under his breath. What was wrong with him? Oblivion was a temporary solution for a long-term problem. How on earth was he supposed to live with just seeing his son one weekend a month?
Max slid his gaze back to the picture, then narrowed his eyes at the woman who had ripped his heart out. Even sober he couldnât laugh at the memory of his once-upon-a-time yearning for herâdreaming and planning on happily ever after. It was sickening, really. Since then, willingness to trust or even love again had ranked in the bottom five hundred on his list of lifeâs ambitions.
Another gulp and he emptied the bottle. He was no closer to oblivion now than heâd been five hours ago. Better luck tomorrow night.
In the fireplace, the once roaring fire had been reduced to glowing embersâsuch was his life. He waved off self-pity and depression with a sweep of his hand and grabbed the manila folder.
As his eyes peeled over notes and facts, he wondered why Underwood had been killed, instead of who had done it.
He shifted his gaze back to the fireplace. The embers brought back an unexpected memory of a certain pair of eyes that held their own kind of spark.
He smiled to himself, then worried about the truth of his own warning. How much trouble was Kennedy St. James really in? Did she understand what she was up against?
He remembered her little boy and thought more on his own son. It didnât take much to understand why she wasnât talking; to be honest with himself, he really couldnât blame her. But he had a job to do, and that job was to get her to talk.
Chapter 10
A aliyah rubbed her tired eyes and continued to stare at her computer screen. At this point, she wished that she could take her coffee intravenously to avoid the trouble of getting up to fill her
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