Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Unlike Akara, I need the thick-lined, clear-cut boundaries. He walks on blurry lines like he was born on them.
“You sure I can’t get you anything?” I ask Jane.
She licks her dry lips. “Maybe a…I mean, if it’s no trouble…”
I stand up and go to the cabinets and grab a water bottle and Advil. Jane watches me, entranced.
I can feel her gaze hot on my back.
My cock almost strains against my sweatpants. Come on, Thatcher. I’m unmoving. Stoic. Glaring at the cabinet and thinking that I need to leave.
She should have fun with her cousins. I should remove myself and respect her space. So I return to Jane, and she watches as I unscrew the water bottle and hand it to her.
“Thank you.” She takes the water from me.
“If you need me, just call out for me. I’m going to help Oscar drive.”
“Okay.” She nods repeatedly, and it’s like pulling my own fucking teeth to pull myself away from Jane.
But I do.
FIVE
LATE NIGHT HOLIDAY DRIVING
DECEMBER 2037
AFTER CHAPTER 28 IN LOVERS LIKE US
Character List:
Jane Cobalt - 22
Bodyguards:
Thatcher Moretti - 27 Omega Co-Lead (Current Client: Jane Cobalt)
JANE COBALT
4AM AND I’m awake. The tour bus is dead silent except for the soft hum of the wind outside and the light thumps from the bumpy road. All efforts to shut my eyes and drift back to sleep have failed miserably.
I wish I were just solely focused on the time. How 4 a.m. could be considered early morning or late at night, depending on your viewpoint. I like to think it's still night until I rise for a cup of coffee. Then, my morning begins.
So it's late night, and no matter what I do, I keep recounting the short exchange I had with Thatcher while I was high earlier. He was concerned about me. I nearly smile.
I stared at his crotch. My eyes widen and my limbs freeze, fully recalling just how long I might’ve ogled my bodyguard.
Oh God, Jane.
I’m trying to be as respectful of him as he’s been of me. I perspire beneath my reindeer onesie. It’s too late to be embarrassed. Perhaps he didn’t even notice.
I need air outside my bunk. Everything feels hot and confined all of a sudden, and as quietly as I can, I slip out of the small enclosure. My feet meet the floor and I make my way down the hall and into the first-lounge.
Empty. Everyone seems to be fast asleep, but I hear soft holiday music coming from the very front of the bus.
My rampant curiosity piques. Someone is driving, of course, so I can’t be the only one awake, and I wonder whose turn out of SFO it is to sit behind the wheel.
I drop my hood and lower the zipper. Wafting the fabric off my chest, my feet carry me towards the source of my curiosity.
I reach the door that encloses the driver and passenger seat. I knock softly. Doing my best not to jolt the driver before I open the door, and when I do, I peek my head in and lay my eyes on my stern bodyguard.
He rarely ever slouches. He drives like he’s well aware of every life aboard the tour bus, but confidence seems to lift his carriage. His muscles and eyes are tensed in readiness. Exuding safety and regimented composure that makes me want to draw nearer.
My intrigue intensifies, and I can’t seem to skulk backwards. “Thatcher,” I greet when he glances over at me. He has two hands on the steering wheel. Very safe.
“Jane.” He gives me a quick sweep, then eyes the road again. “Do you need something?”
“No,” I tell him, but I don’t want to leave just yet. “Would I be a bother if I sat next to you—you can say no, really.” I want to give him an out and not feel obligated to agree with me or even spend time with me while he’s off-duty.
“You won’t bother me.” He tilts his head to the passenger seat. “Go ahead.”
I gently shut the door behind me and then sink into the seat next to Thatcher.
I catch the words to the melodic music. “Silent Night” is playing on the radio, and with the star-blanked sky and very few cars along the highway, the drive to Atlanta is peaceful.
I notice how my bodyguard zones in on my seatbelt, and before he asks, I already snap the buckle.
He looks at me for a longer beat. But it’d be a lie to say I could read him well. His hardened, unshaven jaw and strict lines above his brows give little away.
Thatcher Moretti is a mystery in many ways. A mystery that I know I’m not entirely allowed to uncover. Yet, I find myself here next to him.
And I can’t shut up. Even with the beautiful music, I have trouble sitting in silence. “Toodles loves Christmas,” I mention aloud. “He’s very apathetic about most things. But he’s the only one of my cats who will let me dress him in holiday costumes.”