Soaring (Magdalene #2)(92)
Author: Kristen Ashley

“Coert, swear to fuck, this better be good,” he ground down the phone.

He listened for less than a minute before he was up, seated on the daybed, and he’d arranged me straddling him.

His eyes were to the fire, but they saw no romantic fire blazing by a marvelous daybed.

They were far, far away.

I watched with some awe, and admittedly some unease, as whatever was happening far, far away began to piss Mickey off.

To extremes.

“What do I want you to do?” Mickey asked the unknown Coert, his voice low, rough and filled with such fury, I felt it vibrating all through me. “It’s cool you called me, and just sayin’, she doesn’t have the kids, they’re with me. But I’m not owin’ a favor this time. I want that bitch’s DUI on record.”

I tensed.

It wasn’t even eight thirty and Rhiannon was drunk driving?

And…this time?

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Yeah,” he grunted again. “Right. Thanks, Coert.”

He disconnected and tossed his phone to the afghan.

“Goddamn shit,” he muttered to the fire.

“Mickey,” I whispered.

“Goddamn fucking shit!” he roared, surging up, but planting me gently on my feet before he did something that was sweet— unbelievably sweet in the circumstances—and bent, tagging his tee and handing it to me.

He then went after his boxers as I pulled his tee over my head and when I had it on, I saw he had his boxers up and was nabbing his jeans.

“She’s done this before?” I asked carefully.

He shoved his foot in one leg, answering, “Yeah.” He shoved in the other one and tugged them up then he looked at me. “That was what happened before the thing that happened before the bender that happened when I got shot of her ass.”

“Oh, Mickey,” I said softly, wishing words were magic and I could find the right ones to make that magic work.

He started pacing.

“Maybe she’s…” I started, stopped, then tried, “Maybe all these things are happening and she’s going to hit bottom and—”

He twisted his head to face me and snarled, “She’s not doin’ that shit with my kids.”

I stood there staring at him thinking I’d never seen anyone that angry.

In all my antics, I’d made Conrad spitting mad.

But he’d never been as angry as Mickey was right then.

Somehow, in the face of his rage, I felt no fear.

I just murmured soothingly, “Of course not, honey. You wouldn’t let it.”

“Loved her,” he spat and I flinched. Not at his words, at his emotion. “Only bitch I tagged more beautiful than her is you. Lookin’ back, I knew it was gonna be her the minute I laid eyes on her. Knowin’ that, from the second I met her, treated her ass like gold. I had it to give to her, I gave it. We had it good. She gave me babies. It didn’t happen fast, her sinkin’ into the bottle. It went slow. Can you imagine, Amy, day after day, no matter how hard you held on, watchin’ someone you love slip right through your fingers?”

“No, baby,” I said gently, again feeling the bleed inside.

This time, though, I was bleeding for Mickey.

“Does she love them?” he asked suddenly.

“I’m sorry?” I asked back in confusion.

“Ash and Cill,” he bit out. “’Cause, she does, I don’t get it. She didn’t love me. Told her to get sober or get out. We fought. She swore she didn’t have a problem, told me I had a problem. Comin’ back to me and our family smellin’ like stale booze and lookin’ like shit, and I had the problem. Then she got out. That meant she chose the bottle over me. That’s not love. That the same thing with my kids?”

“I don’t know anything about addiction, Mickey, but I would guess she does, and she loved you too. But she’s not in control. The addiction is.”

“That’s weak,” he clipped.

“You’re angry,” I said softly, moving to him, getting close, but not touching him. “I know you know better. Sickness isn’t weak, and alcoholism is an illness.”

He clenched his jaw, looked away and I watched a muscle dance in his cheek.

He knew.

I took a chance and invaded his space. When he didn’t pull away, I burrowed closer, wrapping my arms tight around him and resting my cheek against his chest.

It took him a few moments, but he finally curled an arm around me, cupped the back of my head with his other hand and held my cheek against his warm skin.

“Hunting cabin is out ’cause I’m thinkin’, she doesn’t sort her shit, I’m not givin’ the kids back to her,” he said over my head.

I nodded, my cheek sliding against his chest, wondering but not asking why he’d given them back after her last escapade on Cillian’s birthday.

“And that fuckin’ sucks,” he went on.

It did but I didn’t agree verbally, I just held him tighter.

“She’s still fuckin’ me over. She can’t hold her shit together means I can’t have time with you.”

“We’ll find our times.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt before he stated, “Maybe shit’ll settle, the kids’ll be good in a coupla months and Josie and Jake’ll take ’em while we go up for a coupla days.”

I held on and replied, “That’d be good.”

I felt Mickey’s chest expand with the deep breath he took and then felt his sigh when he let it out.

His hand slid to my jaw and he tipped my head back.

When he got my gaze, he said, “Gotta have my tee so I can go get my boy.”

I nodded, rolled up on my toes and Mickey met me halfway for a lip brush.

I rolled back and he let me go. I went to get my robe, pulled off Mickey’s tee, pulled on the robe and took it back to him.

He had his boots on by the time I returned. Straightening from the daybed, he reached out as I handed him his shirt.

When he had it on, he pulled me back into his arms. I wrapped mine around him.

“You’re gonna have to store up some smartass so I can fuck it outta you,” he remarked and I smiled at the same time I tingled.

“I don’t think that’ll be difficult,” I assured him.

“For you, no,” he teased.

I grinned at him then tipped my chin down and kissed his chest over his shirt.

He cupped my head to keep my face there, and I kept it there for him, rubbing my nose against his chest then turning my head and pressing my cheek to it again.