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)
We trek in deep, deep snow. Following the road to the grocery store. I set a rigorous pace, and Farrow matches me step-for-step, not slowing for anything.
It’s too cold to talk. Farrow has a black scarf over his mouth, and my jacket is zipped high over my lips.
An hour into the hike, we have to stop. I grab the tube to his water bladder and blow into the spigot so it won’t freeze, then I blow into mine. We drink some.
Needles are poking into my eyeballs. I didn’t realize they hurt until we stopped moving. He notices me blinking way too much.
Farrow clutches my jaw and inspects my eyes. He motions to his pack and pulls down his scarf to whisper against my ear, “Goggles.”
I nod.
We find them (I packed a few pairs), and we put on ski goggles.
Our break is less than three minutes and we’re moving again. Two hours in, and his hand is in my hand.
I think about how in an alternate universe, I’m alone.
Some other bodyguard is here, and they trek silently behind me. Like a shadow. And every step I take is cumbersome with weight I was born to carry.
I could survive in that universe, but I don’t want to.
I want my future husband. Who makes every step I take feel unburdened.
The sun begins to rise, and three hours in, the rental car comes into view, buried in snow. My pulse spikes.
We run.
“Jane?! Thatcher?!” I shout.
“Moffy!” Jane responds. “We’re here!”
She’s alive.
Relief doesn’t come close to what I feel.
EIGHT
CHRISTMAS EVE SNOWED IN
DECEMBER 2038
AFTER CHAPTER 32 IN SINFUL LIKE US
We listened to "The Heart is a Muscle" Gang of Youths while writing this scene.
Character List:
Beckett Cobalt - 21
Luna Hale - 19
Bodyguards:
O’Malley - 27 Epsilon (Current Client: Beckett Cobalt)
Paul Donnelly - 27 Omega (Current Client: Xander Hale)
PAUL DONNELLY
I LIGHT A CANDLESTICK in the kitchen, cupping my hand around the flame as it catches the wick. Wind whistles throughout this old Scotland house, and nearly everyone has dispersed to sleep. Or pretend to.
I can’t sleep.
I’m not even pretending.
It’s nearing midnight on Christmas Eve. Snowed-in for four days and counting. Nobody thought we’d be here for the holidays, so there was no tree, no decorations or gifts, just Christmas music from Quinn’s now dead phone. (Quinnie taking one for the team.)
Today was…eventful.
Holidays bring out the best and worst in people.
We were supposed to be keeping morale high for the famous ones, and that sank into quicksand around the time a fight broke out.
Most of us yelled at Tony and Thatcher (pretending to be Banks) to break apart, but no one stopped Thatcher. Toolbox vs. Tank—Tank is gonna win, no question. Thatcher is massive and too strong, and I’d take on a Tank, a Terminator, a Tsunami for a friend—but Tony isn’t anything to me.
Plus, what came out of his mouth tonight and how he squared up to Jane—if Thatcher didn’t punch him first, someone else would’ve.
The fight was one-sided since Tony couldn’t get the upper hand.
Oscar and I both audibly winced and flinched when Thatcher landed a final, brutal fist in Tony’s jaw. The Toolbox slumped down on the floorboards of the Scotland house. Unconscious.
He’s alright now. Shoulda woke up with a bruised ego, but I think he’s still looking for a fight to validate his manhood. For whatever reason, people see me as an easy punching bag, and so he’s risen on my list of people to avoid while we’re trapped here.
1. O’Malley
2. Tony the Toolbox
3. Beckett
I grind down, my jaw tensing. Beckett. A gnarled root is in my ribcage that I try to breathe out. Only list I thought he’d be on of mine is Friends to Protect. The fact that Jane and Charlie forced their brother here because of his drug use is another reason why I just want to forget and move on.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I mutter to myself, leaning on the kitchen cupboards while I have this orange sweater on the counter. Candlelight flickers over a pinky-sized hole, and using a safety pin I found, I try to fish a thread through and create a knot.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
It’s just a hole.
With my wrist, I nudge my glasses further up my nose. If I can fix it, I wanna fix it. Luna knitted this sweater for me in exchange for sketching the galaxy design for a future tattoo. I made something for her, and she made something for me.
So it means something to me. I don’t want her to think I didn’t care enough about it—that I destroyed it.
“Come on, sweater,” I mutter. “Cooperate with me here.” I have no extra yarn or sewing thread. So I’m working with what already exists. I’m fiddling over the loose yarn around the hole for what feels like ten minutes before I hear footsteps.
I stay bent against the cupboards, elbow on the counter, and a guy on my To Avoid List suddenly enters the kitchen.