Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
What can I say?
I love art in every form.
And sex?
Probably the best fucking art of them all.
Pun – of course – intended.
“Thank you for reminding me – yet again – why our constant visits are so necessary.” She shoves a squeeze ball into my open palm for me to clench. “I take it you came home with a new tattoo?”
“Always.”
“Where?”
“Back of my calf right above my ankle.”
She runs a couple fingers the length of my arm searching for a spot to poke. “Of?”
“A stingray.”
Nancy flashes me a brief, crooked smile. “And what is your plan for when you inevitably run out of blank canvas space?”
“Use yours?”
“Don’t make me get a thicker needle.”
Good natured chuckles leave us both instantly reminding me of what it is I love about this city as opposed to loathe.
And just to be clear, the loathe paint bucket is much fuller than the love one.
Has been for the past few years.
I anticipate it will continue to be for many more to come.
Probably all that I have left.
It doesn’t take her long to find the ideal area, a fact she can’t help but swoon over, “You have perfect veins, Tuck. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“You,” I impishly tease, “but I’m pretty sure you say that to all the tall, tan, tatted, men who plop into your chair this often.”
“Nope,” the medical professional bites back in the same mirthful manner. “And full transparency-”
“My favorite.”
“There’s only one other patient I see this often and he’s ringing 90’s doorbell.” We share a small snicker prior to her carefully puncturing my arm. “Now that I know where you’ve been-”
“And brought you back souvenirs from.”
“Which are where?”
“Your traditional magnet along with some non-traditional healing sand are in the front pocket of my backpack.” My attention lingers on the vial of blood being filled. “You’re supposed to sleep with it under your pillow when you’re feeling unwell. It’s been known to clear up skin rashes. Cure colds and other respiratory infections. And it even worked on me a couple weeks ago when I ate what I later learned was fish too on the edge to be eaten, but what’s life without a few risks, am I right?”
The corners of her mouth threaten to lift higher.
Having miracle working sand is a pretty fucking amazing thing, but unfortunately for me, it doesn’t seem to work on night terrors.
Nope.
So far, just the prescribed pills for that shit.
Pills that I swear I only have to take when coming back to and staying in this godforsaken city.
Yeah.
More paint to fill the loathe of Highland bucket.
“Where are you headed next?” She switches tubes for the second sample. “Amsterdam? Stockholm? Copenhagen? You tend to like to go somewhere cold after you’ve been somewhere hot.”
“I don’t know that I’d call where I was hot…”
Another small smile appears.
“But I will say this. I honestly have no idea where I wanna go next, so maybe I should start scouting sweater weather places.” Dreaminess darts into my voice. “Fuck it, maybe I’ll finally learn the art of ice sculpting.”
“Surprised you don’t already know how to do that.”
“Oh, I know how, but it’s just not a medium I’ve had a lot of practice with.”
Nancy releases a small giggle while shaking her head. “Is there anything in the world of art you can’t do Tucker Frost?”
“Haven’t met a craft I wasn’t willing to at least try.”
I believe the world’s too wild and wonderful to be closed-minded like that.
“You know, you not knowing where to go next is weird.” She properly removes the needle and places a cotton ball on the tiny hole. “Everything okay?”
No?
Yeah?
Fuck, probably?
I mean she’s not wrong.
Typically, I know exactly where the hell I wanna jet away to next. Being back in Highland has always been more of a layover necessity than any kind of pitstop with longevity. I basically stop here to get a clean bill of health – in progress – refill my night terror medication – which sometimes requires a session with the shrink who I know is a creeping out the closet germaphobe – and show my aunt – who I maintain steady contact with even out of the country – that I am indeed alive and well and not being held hostage for ransom.
Truth is most people I cross don’t even realize that I’m a member of that Frost family.
And I damn sure never tell them.
I want next to nothing to do with the billionaire brand I can’t seem to scrub off of me, and the easiest way to keep my distance from it is to physically keep my distance from it.
And them.
Especially the heartless witch who I know wishes I didn’t look so much like the man we both lost.
She thinks it’s hard for her to look at me every once in a blue moon and see him?
Try having to see him every morning in the fucking mirror.