Chapter 11

My eyes flutter, then open a crack, and I stare up at the ceiling as the morning sunlight slants in through the windows. A smile stretches across my face when I feel the warm, soft body of the woman sleeping beside me.

Last night was incredible. After having incredible sex in the truck, we came home and had sex twice more until we both collapsed in an exhausted, sweaty heap. And just lying next to her, listening to her soft breathing, and feeling her soft, supple skin pressed to mine, I feel my cock stirring, ready to have another round with her. I can't get enough of this woman. She makes me feel insatiable.

I have never felt about somebody the way I feel about Harlow. She's opened me up to things I never thought I could experience before. Things I never knew existed. I've always been reserved and have never allowed myself to really get in touch with my emotions. Doing what I do for a living and seeing the things I see on a daily basis, I've found it's always best to compartmentalize. To keep your emotions locked away. Not really feeling things deeply and keeping myself divorced from my emotions has just become second nature to me.

Harlow has found a way to unlock those doors I've buried deep inside of me. Not just unlock them, but kick them in. Once they're open, all those feelings I keep locked behind them come spilling out. And the thing that blows my mind the most is that she's been able to do it without even trying. She's been able to do it effortlessly. She's been like a fucking Cat 5 hurricane that's blown into my life and is turning everything upside down and on its head. I know it sounds ridiculous to say, but it's been in the best way possible.

If I'm being honest, it's been terrifying for me. I'm not used to really feeling things the way I have been these past few weeks. And I've certainly never been as open with a woman as I am with Harlow. I've never cared for somebody the way I care for Harlow. Maybe it's her innocence or relentlessly optimistic attitude, but she's made me see the world in an entirely different way. She's made me see myself in an entirely different way. More than that, she's made me want to be a better man. Without even trying, she's making me change and grow in ways I never expected to grow and change when we first got together.

It's still strange to me to think that we're together at all. When I first met Harlow, back when she was a nineteen-year-old, dating Micah, I won't deny that I was struck by her beauty. She was stunning even back then. But as I got to know her a bit better, I saw the many layers to her. She's intelligent, passionate, kind, compassionate. If I had a checklist of the things I'd include in the perfect woman, she would tick all the boxes. But I never let myself entertain those thoughts back then. She was with my son, after all.

Now, though, as I trail my fingertips across her silken, milky-white skin, I shake my head, wondering at the twists and turns life takes. Harlow murmurs, and it sounds like she's starting to wake up. A slow smile tugs the corners of my mouth as I contemplate starting the morning off the right way by fucking her in the shower. As my mind descends from the fog of fantasy and back into the reality beneath the light of day, I instantly realize something isn't right. As if I'm picking up on a strange vibration in the air, or maybe the hint of a scent that doesn't belong, I suddenly realize we're not alone in the bedroom.

My eyes wide and my pulse racing, I sit up in bed. And when I see him leaning against the doorway of my bedroom, arms folded over his chest, a furious scowl on his face, my heart stops dead in my chest. I quickly work some moisture into my mouth and swallow hard. As if sensing my sudden tension, Harlow sits up, drawing in a sharp breath as she covers her bare chest with the sheet. She cuts her eyes to me, and I can see the fear in them.

"Jesus Christ, Micah," I say quickly, trying to regain control of myself. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"You gave me a key a while back," he says.

"Yeah. I know. But why are you here?"

"I just came by to check in on you," he replies. "I heard you got out of the hospital."

Micah's voice is strangely calm. Almost detached. But his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are hard with rage, and I can see it's a Herculean effort for him to keep his anger in check. A tremor passes through his body, and I can see the first cracks in the dam of his resolve starting to form. He's not going to be able to hold back his fury much longer. I know I need to divert or somehow blunt it to keep it from exploding all over us. Moving quickly, I slip out of the bed and pull on a pair of boxers, then turn and step closer to my son.

"Listen," I say. "Can we talk another time?—"

"What the fuck is going on here?" he asks in a harsh whisper.

"Micah—"

"Were you fucking her when we were dating?"

"No. It's not like that."

Micah turns to Harlow, his lips curling back in a sneer. "Is that it? You were fucking him behind my back?"

She shakes her head, her eyes wide with fear. "Micah, we didn't?—"

"Right. So, it's just a coincidence?—"

"It is!" Harlow cried. "I hadn't even seen your father until he was brought into the ER a few weeks ago. It was just?—"

"Shut the fuck up. You're a fucking liar."

"She's not lying, Micah," I tell him firmly.

"Yeah. Right," he growls. "Fucking bitch."

"Watch your mouth, Micah."

"Or what? What are you going to do about it?"

"You really don't want to find out."

Micah shakes his head. His face is red and his features are twisted with fury as he looks from me to Harlow, then back again.

"I don't fucking believe you," he spits. "How can you do this to me?"

"I'm not doing anything to you, Micah," I tell him, my voice hard. "You and Harlow haven't even been together for a while. This isn't about you."

"You're a piece of shit," he says, his eyes narrowing to slits. "What kind of father steals his own son's girlfriend?"

"I'm not your girlfriend, Micah," Harlow says. "I haven't been for a long time."

"I didn't ask you. Just shut your slut mouth."

Anger surges inside of me and I step forward, my hands balled into fists at my side. "I told you. Watch your mouth. I will not tolerate you speaking to Harlow that way."

Micah rounds on me, but instead of speaking, he throws a fist that catches me flush on the left side of my head. It surprises me more than it hurts, but the sharp crack of his fist meeting my face pulls a shocked and scared yelp from Harlow. My vision turns red and every cell in my body hums with an angry energy. Before I realize what I'm doing, I grab Micah's shirt with both hands and slam him into the wall behind him so hard it drives the breath out of him.

"Hunter, don't—" Harlow calls.

Micah's eyes are wide, and there is genuine fear on his face as he stares back at me, seemingly shocked that I'd put my hands on him. I'm not about to let him speak about Harlow like that. Just when I think my point has been made, the fear melts away from Micah's face and is replaced by an expression of pure hatred and disgust.

"You can have the whore," he growls. "I was done with her anyway."

I know that he's lashing out. I know that he's just trying to get under my skin and say something he thinks will hurt me. Well, he's gotten under my skin all right. His words don't hurt me. No. They enrage me.

Before I can stop myself, I slap him across the face. I don't even realize it until the sharp crack of my open-handed slap rings in my ears. It sounds like a baseball hitting an old leather mitt and is quickly followed by a gasp from Harlow and a pained squeak from Micah, who puts his hand over a cheek that's burning a bright, angry red from my slap.

"What the fuck?" he gasps.

"I told you to watch your fucking mouth."

"You son of a bitch."

"It's time for you to go, Micah."

"Fuck you."

"Leave now or something worse is going to happen," I say, my voice flat and cold. "And I promise you'll like it even less than that little tap I just gave you."

His eyes are wide and shimmering with tears he's struggling to keep from falling. Truth be told, I'm as surprised that I slapped him as he looks to be, but I feel like it made my point. I don't like resorting to violence. And I really don't like the fact that I slapped my kid, but he needs to learn some fucking respect.

"Listen, I'm sorry you're upset, Micah. But you have no right to be," I tell him. "And you sure as shit don't have a right to speak to me or Harlow that way. Whatever existed between you two ended a long time ago. It's time you grow the fuck up."

"Gee, thanks for the advice, Dad," he says, his eyes narrowing and his voice dripping with scorn. He slaps at my hands. "Get the fuck off me."

"It's time for you to go," I tell him and let go of his shirt. "And I don't want you coming back here until you learn to speak to us with some fucking respect. You hear me?"

"Yeah, no problem."

Muttering to himself darkly, Micah storms out of my place, slamming the door so hard behind him the windows rattle in their frames. I turn to Harlow, who still has the sheet pulled up to her chin. Her eyes are red, and tears are spilling down her cheeks. She looks at me with a look of absolute sorrow on her face. Her lips quiver, and she shakes her head.

"Some things never change. It's just like it was back when we were dating," she says, her voice a trembling whisper. "I'm so sorry."

With just one sentence, I get an idea of what her relationship with my son was like. Why she finally had enough and walked away from him. It sends a sharp jab of pain through me when I think about her having to live that way. More than that, I'm impressed by the strength it must have taken to walk away. She's stronger than I think even she realizes.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I do," I tell her. "I'm sorry he spoke to you that way. I'm sorry he treated you that way when you were together. I … I didn't know."

"Nobody did. I didn't want anybody to."

I don't like the way knowing she was so badly treated makes me feel. It hurts my heart for her. She should have never been made to feel like she was less than, or that she wasn't worth being treated well. Wasn't worth being honored. Cherished. Held up and put on a pedestal and treated like the queen she is. She's worth that and more.

"I can promise you that you will never be spoken to like that or treated less than you're worthy again, Harlow," I tell her. "Not while I'm around."

She raises her gaze to mine, her eyes still watering. This time, though, it's not fear in her eyes. It's something more intimate. It's something that seems a lot like love. And I hope she can see the same reflected in mine.