Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Jane ties her hair in a low pony. “There is a bold line, Moffy, and these fools have crossed it.”
“They’re drunk fools,” I remind Jane. “They’re here to incite one of us. This is what they fucking want.” I’ve said all of this a million times to myself. Right before I land a fist into a heckler’s jaw. Sometimes these facts feel meaningless, but we have to repeat them for each other. For ourselves.
Or else we’ll all go out of our goddamn minds.
Charlie and Beckett watch their sister carefully, but they don’t stand up and join Jane.
She unzips her purse and procures her pepper spray canister while marching to the door, guarded by Thatcher.
Jane reaches him and lifts her chin since he’s a whole foot taller. “Excuse me, Thatcher, but there are people I need to have words with on my best friend’s behalf. Move aside.”
Yeah, alright, I’m smiling.
Thatcher never budges. “I can’t, Jane.”
“PUT YOUR DICK IN HIM!!”
Farrow suddenly reaches for the bedside drawer.
For a condom?
No.
There’s absolutely no way he’s grabbing a condom.
Jane clears her throat. “Mr. Moretti,” she tries again, “I need to go break a few dicks. Can you please step aside?” Her angry face crinkles her nose.
“No—”
“MAXIMOFF HALE IS GONNA FUCK A PORN STAR!!”
The attic goes silent. No one is speaking.
Farrow’s jaw tics. That one got to him.
I go rigid.
The auction news has probably made headlines, and I just haven’t checked the internet yet. I’ve been unaware of how the whole world perceives my relationship with Farrow. Purposefully.
But now I think about the porn star.
I think about what people must be saying online, whether they’re calling my relationship with Farrow a fucking sham or not monogamous or maybe they just think I’m cheating.
I don’t know.
And now I need to know. So I can defend my boyfriend with a tweet, an Instagram video, and an airplane banner over the Pacific Ocean.
While Jack, Oscar, and Akara near the window—most likely with a plan that doesn’t involve the last resort: call the cops for noise disturbance—I search for my phone under the covers.
“What are you doing?” Farrow asks.
I find my phone tangled in the sheets. “Looking at the internet—”
Farrow seizes my phone. “We’ll look together. Downstairs.” He climbs off the bed, standing. And as he combs his hair back for a third time, I realize he has something serious to tell me.
In private.
I stand, the pain in my collarbone thumping more consistently than a half hour ago. Farrow rounds the bed, careful of the air mattresses, and Oscar wrenches the window open.
Jack sticks his head out with Akara.
“Maximoff isn’t here!” Jack shouts. “Production is setting up for the show! You all need to leave!”
“Or we’ll be calling the police for noise disturbance!” Akara threatens.
“AKARA KITSUWON!” a drunk girl shouts. “PROTECT MEEE!!”
Akara yells one more threat and then leaves the window. Annoyance lines his forehead. I can’t imagine how frustrating the lack of anonymity must be for SFO.
As Jack closes the curtains, they all discuss waiting to see if the heckling worsens or dies down.
I cut in front of Farrow before he reaches the door. Just so I can tell Thatcher, “We’re just going to the kitchen. I need more ice.”
Thatcher nods, no argument, and let’s us pass.
12
MAXIMOFF HALE
We’re in the kitchen pantry. I’d say that I led us here, but I clearly trailed behind Farrow, broken collarbone and all. I’m slower, but right now, I’m not as frustrated about it and he’s not teasing me since we’re dealing with heavier things. Waist-deep in quicksand.
I swear we can’t catch a break.
Farrow tugs the string to the ceiling light bulb. A warm glow casts on cluttered wooden shelves, stocked with cereal boxes, protein bars, candy, and crackers.
We both agreed on this spot. The pantry is the quietest place in the townhouse. Farrow and I have fucked against these shelves more than once. Rough enough that as I pounded into him, soup cans fell to the floorboards. No one upstairs heard, and with the door locked now, our voices shouldn’t echo up the staircase.
So it’s climax-proof.
I hold out my left hand for my phone that’s still in Farrow’s grip.
He rests his elbow beside a half-opened box of Pop-Tarts, not relinquishing my phone. He tilts his head at me. “I meant it when I said let’s look together.”
I don’t stand next to him yet. “Farrow, just let me be the one to check the tabloids.”
He frowns. “You realize I’ve dealt with internet trolls calling you, my boyfriend, a sack of shit, a dumb fuck, a spoiled bastard, and much, much worse. I couldn’t do a fucking thing, and still, I’m standing. I haven’t broken down yet, so what the hell are you protecting me from, Maximoff?”
Farrow is used to internet trolls harassing me, but it’s a different feeling when the unwanted opinions are about us.