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)
Disbelief of what I’m about to doesn’t take long to kick in nor does the idea of maybe getting out of it. Contemplation regarding worst- and best-case scenarios quickly floods my mind sorting themselves into different lists. By the time we’re arriving at the entrance, I’ve managed to talk myself back into doing something wild.
And weird.
And free.
After all, who knows when or if I’ll really get another chance to live life.
I missed out on a lot being the “substitute mom” for my siblings who all had no problems doing what they wanted. Rebelling or testing their tastes. For crying out loud, Dakota went to a Star Wars themed orgy over spring break this past year, an experience that left me with questions about positions that I had to Google when I got back to my apartment.
If she can get her hair banged by some random dude that sounded an awful like Foreman from That 70s Show, then there’s no reason I can’t let my boyfriend – my very sexy and mind-blowingly talented boyfriend – airbrush my tits.
Tucker flashes a QR code on his phone to the bouncer and the second we cross the threshold, concern scribbles itself all over my face again, courtesy of a familiar face I wish wasn’t.
“Tuck…” Norm sleazily coos, smirk stretching from ear to ear.
CheeseandRembrandt!
He’s creepy like a lost episode of Criminal Minds.
How my dad gets me to watch that with him but can’t sit through Kill la Kill without getting squeamish makes no sense to me.
“Norm.” My boyfriend curls his arm protectively around my waist as we move off to one side of the entryway. “Didn’t think a ‘real artist’ like you went to ‘small shindigs’ like this.”
“The best artists know to stay close to their roots,” he pretentiously grins. “Which is why you will never be a great one. You’ve always ran from yours.”
“You don’t know shit about my roots.”
“I know a little something about a pill addiction and a dainty blonde named-”
“Don’t.” Tucker growls at the same time he points a harsh finger at him. “Don’t you dare say her fucking name.” His grip on me suddenly disappears. “Do you dare even fucking think her goddamn name.”
Who?!
Who is she?!
And why is this first time I’m hearing about she?!
And why does she – whoever she is – make Tucker so pissed?
I mean I’ve only seen one other person get under his skin with minimal effort and that was his mom, particularly in regard to his father.
Oh…what if this dainty blonde is tied to that?!
Like a secret mistress that almost destroyed their family?!
MotherofMonaLisa what the fuck have I gotten myself tangled into?!
“Does your current groupie-”
“Girlfriend,” Tuck viciously chomps.
“-not know about her predecessor?” The teeth sucking sound he expels has me wishing my boyfriend would knock a couple out for him to have less to make that noise with. “Not surprised. Doubt she’d stick around if she did.” An evil chortle precedes his gaze shifting my direction. “You have a better rack than she did, May.”
“June,” I quietly hiss the correction.
“And I can’t wait to see it glowing in the dark.” Seeing his tongue wet his lips churns my stomach. “Hell, I can be the one to paint it if you like. Demonstrate firsthand what an actual artist can do with his fingers.”
There isn’t time to make a snide remark or even think of one. Tucker curls his fingers around Norm’s throat, harshly grips, and shoves him into the nearby wall. While one knock into it is sufficient enough to get his point across, a second, third, and extremely forceful forth, reiterate the message.
Holy. Shit.
I know Tucker’s got a protective, Tuxedo Mask side, I just…I never thought I’d see it like this.
Norm taps on my boyfriend’s flexed fingers prior to airily croaking, “Icantbreath.”
“I know,” he emotionlessly retorts yet maintains his death grip. “And if you’d like to resume doing that without the help of a respirator, I suggest you do whatever it takes to make sure you and June never even come close to breathing the same fucking air again.” Seeing his hand squeeze harder robs the oxygen from my own lungs. “Am I painting a clear enough picture for you, the artist professionally known as Norme, or would you like me to sketch you some additional details?”
“Clear,” is spoken in a gravely, gurgled tone.
Finding the response sufficient, Tuck releases his grasp, prompting the other male to dramatically gasp for air.
Two men who I assume are with security convene on our location from opposite sides of the small area, both with their hands on their holstered weapons and both with cautious expressions.
The taller, older, peach skinned of the two, inquires, “Is there a problem here?” Tucker turns his face to reply but is instantly interrupted. “Tuck?!”
“Bowers!” my boyfriend joyfully greets the man on a warm handshake.
“Long time no see, kid.” His chuckle is warm. Sincere. “Didn’t know you were in town again.”