"You could be a family," Tucker stated, crossing beefy arms across his chest.
A furnace lit behind my cheekbones. I jammed my index finger into his shoulder, to make him listen, to take out my frustration, hell, I don't know. Maybe I needed to vent. "No. No. No. He hates me. He has his life, his fancy house, and now he has Rocky. There is no scenario, no possible outcome to this shitty soap opera where I come out the winner."
"Winner of what?" Tango asked, sauntering toward us, wiping his bare chest with a towel. His grin faded when he noticed my scowl. It took tremendous will power to keep my gaze fixed above his chin. I would not look at his ridiculous abs. I would not.
"Nothing," I groaned, throwing my arms in the air. I turned to retreat up the stairs, hoping to unleash the tempest of frustration and anger on my pillow, or some unfolded laundry. I stopped before stepping on the wet paint, growled my disapproval, and headed for the downstairs bathroom instead. "And put on a damn shirt," I yelled before slamming the door behind me.
"What's wrong with Mommy?" I heard Rocky ask.
I reached behind me and pushed the lock.
What was wrong with me? Well, that was a no-brainer. I was breaking, despite having convinced myself I would survive this whole nightmare. I loved Tango. I loved him so deep, and his parts were so tangled with mine that uprooting any bit of him would tear me apart from the core. I was headed toward unavoidable demise.
I plopped my ass on the toilet and cried. Angry tears. Ugly, face-contorting, giant, burning tears. I reached over and turned on the ancient, squeaky bathroom fan so nobody could hear my sobs.
I had to get this ridiculous, fanciful hope out of my system. Tango would never be mine. The fates made that perfectly clear. I needed to grow the fuck up and let him go. I could do this. Or at least pretend. I'd faked it for the past six years. What was sixty or seventy more?
I was damn lucky to be sitting on my toilet and not in a jail cell. I could focus on my freedom. Be grateful that I could still call Rocky my son. I'd given Tango his child. He'd granted me immunity—from the lies, fear, guilt, and constant uncertainty.
Krissy is a full time writer, avid reader, and lover of dark and dirty romance.
Her childhood was filled with adventure that fueled an overactive imagination and ignited a passion for storytelling. Whether it be dolls or running free through the wooded areas surrounding her home, playtime always included a tormented villain, a damsel in distress, and a larger than life hero.
Krissy lives in Seattle with her husband, children, and too many four-legged, furry monsters. The only thing she loves more than curling up with a steamy romance novel is cozying up to her desk and writing her own sexy adventures to share with others.