Blind Side by K.B. Nelson Read Free Book Online

run.
    And then the unexpected…
    A soft kiss against my neck.

    * * *
    M y eyes flash open to the sounds of a rooster screaming at the morning light. Soft, hot rays of sunshine filter through the window. I’m hot and sweaty, with clammy skin and reeling with symptoms of a hangover though I haven’t drank.
    I don’t remember when I fell asleep, only that it occurred not too long after I recovered my clothing from the dirty ground outside the car. I look over to see that he’s dressed too, though the last I remember all he had on were his underwear.
    I look over to him, seeing him for the first time in the light, and I’m not disappointed. In the darkness, he was a beast fit for the monster I’ve become. Tall, dark, and handsome, that’s all that mattered last night. But now, there’s a striking innocence to him as he sleeps, with one hand cradled behind his head, and another shielding his sleeping eyes from the assault of the morning light. His face that was smooth is now rough with stubble.
    His black cut off is tangled around his stomach, exposing the ridges and grooves of his abs, and spectacular chest. His shoulders aren’t as broad as I had remembered them, more fitting for a quarterback than a running back.
    I look at him and more than all his finest features, I see my own guilt reflecting back at me. The freedom I had found last night is torn away from me as I’m thrown into a new kind of prison I haven’t experienced before, shackled by the weight of my choices, and unlike my husband, I don’t have the excuse that I was drunk.
    I simply needed release, and that will never be enough to suffice in the court of public opinion. This can never happen again. It won’t happen again. It won’t so much as ever be talked about, because Kemper was right, what happened last night won’t have happened come morning.
    Carefully, as to not awake him, I reach for the handle of the door and push it open.

7
    T he door is cracked open when I arrive. Instead of spinning the house key into the lock, I gently press my palm against the door and it creaks open. My best guess is someone got a little too tipsy and didn’t close the door all the way. In the grand scheme of things, it’s the smallest of crimes.
    My body and mind are weighed down with the symptoms of a hangover, but I haven’t had a drink in weeks. It’s more of a hangover of the soul where my body has been poisoned by the toxins of lust. It was meant to be a freeing experience from the hell I’ve been living in, a brief respite in the cold from the burning fire of my marriage.
    But now, as I step slowly through this old house, I feel shackled by guilt. The original hardwood floors beneath me, a major selling point for our purchase of this home not even two years ago, threaten to expose me with every step. After the first creak of the floor, I slow my pace. Each step toward the staircase is another step toward facing the man I chained myself to at a very young age, a man I’m still chained to with no key in sight.
    I ascend the steps one excruciating step at a time, until I reach the top where the iron spindles curves into a carpeted landing. The floor beneath me is soft, molding around my feet as I inch toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. I pass the first door on the right, an empty room with an empty closet and a full sized bed. It was the room I dreamed would become a nursery one day, and then eventually a bedroom in which my child would mature to adulthood.
    Those dreams were dashed away three hundred and fifty-seven days ago. In eight days, I’ll be forced to relive the anniversary of the day I lost everything; my reputation, my husband, and my unborn child.
    My heart elopes from my chest as I draw closer to our bedroom. I try to force myself to breathe, to remain standing as I finally reach my destination.
    When I push open the door, the old hinges scream and I freeze in place. I peek through a thin crack of the door to see Brock lying in bed,