Shallow River

by H.D. Carlton

For the vulnerable. For the strong. For the survivors. For the warriors.

In my psychology books, this would be considered abuse. But do I feel abused? The tear trailing down my cheek answers my question for me. I wipe it away before Ryan sees it. Asshole.

When Ryan has a bad day, everybody suffers for it. Especially his girlfriends.

Urgh! Been there

I need to book an appointment at a spa ASAP. Couldn’t care less if it freaks people out that a six-foot-five man is chilling in a mud bath, I fucking need it.

He’s a spoiled asshole that’s been throwing one long temper tantrum for most of his life. Still shocks me how two of the most loving and caring people I’ve ever met created a sociopathic monster.

I don’t consider myself a good guy, but I’m not a monster either. I don’t abuse girls. I don’t rape girls. I don’t do anything to them that they don’t want me to. Ask for consent, and I shall receive. It’s basic fucking morals.

“He’s good. I’ll give him that.” When I frown, he clarifies, “He’s broken you so effortlessly, the pain hasn’t even hit you yet.”