Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Cellphone in his hand.
“Alert the press,” I say. “He’s off his phone.”
Akara throws up a middle finger my way.
I smile. “You masturbate with that hand too?”
“I sin with my left,” he says seriously, waving his other hand. He eyes me up and down. “You?”
I hold up my right hand. “I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.”
He lets out a short laugh, his smile rising.
“Truth: I used to do it with my left hand, but I popped my shoulder out in boot camp. Been doing it with the right ever since.”
“Too much information.” He changes into a pair of boxer-briefs quickly, and I get a nice view of his bare ass. “Or as Sulli would say, TMfuckingI.”
“Yeah, I miss that girl, too,” I breathe out.
“It’s the worst when she’s not around,” he agrees as he climbs into the king-sized bed.
Spacious room lies between us, and I’m not sure how much I like the emptiness. I pound a pillow next to me, where she’d be, but everything in my head feels disconnected to what I’m actually feeling.
I shove the pillow onto the floor.
Glancing over, Akara is on his phone, the light illuminating his features. And then he rests his cell on the nightstand.
I lie back, getting more comfortable.
Akara lies back.
We’re staring at the ceiling. The air eases, and there’s nothing weird about tonight to me. But where’s his mind at? “You wish I said get the doubles?” My head rolls to the side on the pillow, and his gaze catches mine.
“No,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
Alone.
We could have been in the same room in different beds, and not been technically alone, but I know what he means.
It’s a feeling we’re both trying to combat like we’re on home base swinging at fast balls. Loneliness might be all three of our kryptonite.
We end up lying closer. Pressed up side-by-side. Feels better now. Not complete. But better.
“Get some sleep, Banks,” he tells me like an order. I want to say the same thing to him. I almost think I do, but I can’t be certain before sleep grabs me and doesn’t let go.
23
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
Fucking zilch. Nada. Nothing.
That’s what security and a professional surveillance team found at the penthouse after two full days of sweeping for bugs.
I trust my roommates. I trust security and my fucking family. No one that I love would create a gossip website and leak our private lives.
It makes no sense to me.
We have less strangers coming in and out of the penthouse than Beckett has in his Hell’s Kitchen apartment. From cleaning services, to a private chef, to the boozy ragers Tom and Eliot have thrown—they should be the ones with their secrets blasted online.
Not that I’d wish that on them!
God, I just hate that being so cautious still leads us here. The universe is a pigeon taking a giant, steaming shit on our heads, and no matter if I’m holding an umbrella or wearing a hat, I still have to deal with the pigeon crap.
Akara showed me the list of “suspects” that have entered and exited the penthouse recently, and he circled the high-threat ones.
Delivery men dropping off a piano.
Delivery men dropping off baby clothes. (For Jane, another gift from our grandmother, even though Jane never said anything about trying to have a baby to her.)
Cat sitters that Jane interviewed.
Grandmother Calloway.
Personally, Grandmother Calloway is at the very top of my You Stink Like Dirty Old Socks & Suspicion list. But she’s professed innocence to SFO, my uncles, aunts, and parents. The surveillance team tore apart the baby grand piano.
No bugs.
They even rummaged through the expensive onesies and bibs she bought Jane.
Again, no bugs.
If our penthouse isn’t wire-tapped with microphones and secret recorders, then someone in the inner-circle is blabbing to an untrustworthy fucking mole. Like how Audrey Cobalt sent the Hot Santa Underwear Contest video to a friend, who leaked the clip of SFO strutting around in next-to-nothing.
But Jane and Moffy are so careful—it’s hard to imagine they’d tell the wrong person about Jane’s egg retrieval.
And then two new leaks dropped on the website today.
THE ROYAL LEAKS
We reveal all the truths about the American Royals. These are verified and come directly from the source.
ROYAL LEAK #1: Sullivan Meadows is trying to be vegan for her sister.
ROYAL LEAK #2: Thatcher Moretti had an older brother named Skylar who died at 15.
#TodaysLeaks #sisterbonds #brotherbonds #DeathInTheFam
I’m not that impressed the mole thinks my being vegan is some sort of “salacious” leak. What I find more in-fucking-furating is the fact they announced Skylar’s death like some super juicy secret.
Skylar Moretti was a real person with people who loved him and still hold love for him. He shouldn’t pop up on The Royal Leaks.
SFO is concerned how Thatcher’s now a name on the gossip site without Jane attached. If he’s considered royalty by marriage, then Farrow is too. Fair game to be exposed to the world.