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 just didn’t realize how much it’d pain me to see and feel.
Interlacing my other hand with his, I say, “There is no handbook, wolf scout. You’re not docked stars because we decided to fuck now and talk about boring shit later. We do what feels right, when it feels right. That’s it.”
I need him to understand that this was my choice too.
He looks into me. “What if it’s different for me because of her?” Guilt obliterates his features, even blaming his mom. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know. And you’re not a sex addict,” I tell him. You’re not like your mom.
He shuts his eyes, taking a smoother breath. “I just fucked you in a bathroom.” He opens his eyes to the shake of my head.
“This might hurt you to know, but I don’t give a shit right now—I have fucked other men in bathrooms,” I say bluntly. “I’ve had sex on beaches, sports fields, bleachers, other places outside, and it was fun. Like what just happened was fun and healthy, and it’s all been done before by plenty of people. You’re not the first person to enjoy public sex, Maximoff.”
He thinks hard, and he lets go of my hand. He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ve never questioned it like this before. Not once.”
I nod.
He breathes. “I can’t drive. I can’t swim. I can’t throw myself into work. And I love sex, but for the first time, I’m terrified that I could take it too far and I wouldn’t even notice.”
“I’d notice.” I brush his cheekbones with my thumb. “You trust me?”
His eyes toughen, not soften. “Of course.”
“If I see that you’re changing to a point where it looks bad, I’m going to tell you. We’re together. We fuck each other. Your doubts are always my concerns, and I’m here for you anytime, every time.”
Maximoff inhales. “I must’ve missed that page in the Boyfriend Manual.”
I look up at the ceiling in short thought, then back to him. “If manuals for this shit existed, we’d be on a much different edition by now.”
“The Son of a Sex Addict Manual.”
I let out a short laugh. “I was definitely thinking of a word that’s stronger than ‘boyfriend’, but sure, we can go with Son of a Sex Addict.”
The bulb burns out of a gold light fixture above us. Cutting into our banter, and then Maximoff tells me, “I need you to know that I don’t regret fucking you here.”
“Good.” I nod. Thank God.
“And I don’t want you to have sex with me and think in the back of your head that I’m an addict—”
“Man, that’s the last thing I’ll be thinking about while we’re fucking.” I zip up my leather jacket, and this time, his eyes are only on my eyes. “I’ll be enjoying myself. Like always. Hopefully you will too.”
22
MAXIMOFF HALE
Nights are the worst.
I stare up at the rafters, my mattress hard beneath my back. I can’t turn onto my side. Can’t curl up into a ball or shift for a better position. With my injury, I suffer on my back every damn night. If the pain ramps up, it usually takes me an hour to drift off.
Tonight, it’s different.
Legs aren’t intertwined with mine. My head doesn’t careen onto someone else’s shoulder. I don’t feel the presence of another body. It’s just me and my thoughts, and I can’t say it’s been an enjoyable experience.
Farrow is at the hospital, working a long shift, and I won’t see him until the afternoon. The clock glows an annoying 3:02 a.m., reminding me that I’ve been trying to fall asleep for three excruciating hours.
I’m not used to being in bed alone, and I crave for those days on the FanCon tour bus where I could easily crawl into Farrow’s bunk.
Three years.
That’s how long Farrow’s residency will last. Three years where I’ll have nights where he’s not around. And goddamn, I miss him. Talking to him. Having him annoy me until I’m a smiling idiot.
I also feel like a whiney bastard silently complaining about some nights where he’s gone. There are people dealing with worse separation over longer time periods and distances. And I don’t envy that. I don’t even like stomaching this.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Needing my brain to shut the fuck up. I reach over and grab my cell off the nightstand. No missed texts. No cousins or siblings messaged me since the last time I checked. They’re probably all asleep.
Pulling myself up, I lean more against the headboard. Floorboards and brick walls creak loudly inside the old townhouse. Tonight, heavy gusts of wind beat at the window, and my gray curtains sway back-and-forth. Tiny lights that are wrapped around the ceiling rafters start flickering.
Power might go out soon.
To restrain myself from texting Farrow, I scroll through my little sister’s tweets. She roasts me daily on Twitter. One time I was on a late-night talk show to promote a charity event and the host had me read Kinney’s tweets out loud.