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)
I feel the start of my smile. “I can push seventy-five on it,” I add, returning to the motorcycle talk.
The corner of his mouth lifts with a short laugh. “Your bike’s throttle is shot. I couldn’t even accelerate to thirty when I tried. If anything, I should be buying you a new bike for your birthday in July.” He hoists his dish and holds it out to me.
I scrape my black olives, which I hate and he loves, onto his pizza. “You can’t get me a bike,” I say. “I only got you a pair of boots for your 28th.” He’s wearing those boots right now.
“Rip up the Birthday Rulebook.” Farrow folds his slice of pizza. “Because if you want to start comparing the prices of our gifts to each other—I only spent five bucks on you for Christmas.” He smiles before taking a large bite of pizza.
That five-buck gift is buckled on my left wrist: an olive-green wristwatch. Right beneath lies the gray paracord bracelet that he gave me out-of-the-blue.
And I loved that the watch was really cheap. He wasn’t trying to replace my old one with something flashy. He gave me what fit me.
“Look, all I’m saying,” I tell Farrow, “is that if you buy me a bike, I’m gonna buy you one. I can’t even ride a motorcycle until I’m out of this damn sling. You need it more than me.” I’ve wanted to buy him one since he sold his FZ-09 for the auction, and this whole conversation started because his residency begins tomorrow.
He has to drive my Audi until he can get another vehicle. I offered my bike to him, and he called it a piece of shit. And that’s how this spiraled here.
I bite the thick pizza, bell peppers and sausage falling onto my plate. “Fuck,” I mumble.
Farrow looks too amused. Like he has me beat at something else. He’s eating his pizza without an avalanche of toppings.
Yeah, I don’t fold-and-hold my pizza, and I don’t know how he made that look cool.
After he takes a swig of water, he tells me, “Okay, let’s do this.” His eyes meet mine. “We’re not gifting any bikes since we both need new ones. I can’t afford a brand new MT-10, and that’s the Yamaha I’d want. I’ll split the cost with you, and then when you buy a new bike, we’ll split the cost of that one.”
I swallow my food. Thinking about this. “So we’ll both own both bikes?”
His pizza hovers near his mouth. “Technically, my insurance will be on mine, but personally I’d consider them both of ours.”
Both of ours.
I repeat that.
Both of ours.
“You’re smiling,” he points out before eating.
Yeah, it’s hard to grimace. “What can I say? I like your personalies more than your technicalities.”
His rings clank on wood as he taps his chair. He swallows his food. “Technically,” he starts, and I’m already groaning, “personalies don’t exist. It’s not a word.”
I fill my mouth with pizza to free my hand—and I flip him off.
He rolls his eyes into a smile. As he eats the crust of his, I zero in on his cheek. Where Thatcher hit him. The bruise is almost gone, but Jane has helped Farrow conceal the blemish with makeup whenever we go out.
Farrow didn’t want a tabloid to spin a story about me punching him.
I’m still majorly pissed at Thatcher. More than even Farrow at this point. I don’t understand why Thatcher keeps shitting on my boyfriend, and if he does it again, I’ll snap on him.
I told Jane what her bodyguard said, and immediately she told me, “I won’t speak to him. I can’t.” Out of loyalty to us, she’s been on a gigantic silent treatment with Thatcher until further notice.
I know it’s hard for Janie. She likes to engage in conversation, even if it’s a one-sided chat and the person rarely answers back.
In the pizzeria, my gaze falls from his cheek to his carved biceps. More distracted by his tattoos than his muscles. An inked ribbon circles a compass with the words, go your own way.
The media keeps speculating what my next career will be.
A recent headline: Maximoff Hale, Heir to Three Corporations. Which one will he choose? You believe that I’ll be hired to one of the family companies: Fizzle, Hale Co., or Halway Comics.
I can even help out at Superheroes & Scones. But I don’t know where my heart is yet.
“What are you thinking?” Farrow crumples a napkin.
I retrace my brain’s endless paths. “I’m thinking about life. How I left my family legacy, and tomorrow, you’re returning to yours.” My head turns as someone approaches.
A waiter brings over hot tea that I ordered. I thank him, the water steaming and cup too hot to touch.
As he leaves, I tell Farrow, “And how I have a gigantic load of free time and maybe I should build a house with my bare hands or go into the wild and figure out the philosophical meaning of my fragile existence. And then I think about how I’d rather go into the wild with you.” I add, “And how my ass is better than your ass.”