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)
It makes drinking or hitting a bong before eight a.m. more of a must and less of an “option”.
“Tucker?” Nancy cautiously calls me back from where my mind wanders away to at the same time that she wraps the area with neon yellow bandaging. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” I swiftly brush off with a forced grin, “just a random wave of jetlag.”
My excuse while pure bullshit is thankfully well received. “Hydrate and get some rest.”
“You sure you’re a vampire and not a doctor?”
She giggles again, rolls her eyes a second time, and places the collection in its proper bagging. “Get out of my chair and leave my goodies behind.”
Light laughter circles around the corner area as I place the two gifts in the seat I was just occupying.
Post delivering the sample to its location, she ditches her gloves and warmly says, “Seriously. Rest up and try to relax while you’re home.”
“Home is where the art is, Nancy, so technically…I’m always at home and always relaxing.”
“Heart, Tucker. Home is where the heart is.”
“Can’t spell heart without art.”
She’s shot one final wink on my way out of the room that causes her to sweetly sigh.
It’s not exactly a new mantra that I’m suddenly living by.
It’s one I believe so strongly in that I have the one word inked across the spot on my chest. Having it tattooed there primed the canvas for the rest of the markings that have followed. Getting it first most certainly sparked the desire to turn my 6’0 frame into a walking masterpiece that I love working on.
Exiting the building of Highland North Regional Clinic, which is conveniently located right across the street from the hospital, Highland North Medical Center, I head to the nearby parking lot to scout the scene for the car my aunt has sent to retrieve me.
Which is unneeded.
I can literally walk to the hotel that bears our family name from here.
And I don’t mind walking.
I’ve spent the better part of my twenties doing lots of it.
“Tucker?” a woman’s voice nervously questions from somewhere to my right, drawing my attention that direction. It doesn’t take long to spot the source of the beautiful sound. “Uh…are you Tucker?” She uncomfortably asks a young male heading towards the entrance. “Tucker Frost?”
He gives her a quick shake of the head and continues his trek.
“Okay.” She leans her black suit pant covered ass against the passenger door to the vehicle. “That’s like the fourth person I’ve creeped out in twenty minutes. There has gotta be a better method than this.” The unknown female blows a loose strand away from her forehead and scans the situation for another target to question. “Oh, maybe that’s him!” Her arm lifts into the air to frantically wave at another guy walking past me, bumping her elbow in the process. “Tucker?!” She gives the area a small, soothing rub. “Are you Tucker?! Tell me you’re Tucker.”
“Mom…” the brown-haired individual slowly states to the woman on the phone a distance behind him, “there’s a creepy woman screaming at me.”
“OhmyVanGogh,” she squawks, beautiful brown skin becoming coated in red, “no. No! I’m just looking for Tucker! I’m here to ride him! Er…um…give him a ride on me!”
I’m interested.
“Ugh. In me. No! Wait. In the car. I meant I’m here to give him a ride in the car!”
I like car sex but given the mother’s look of horror I’d guess she doesn’t.
“I’m not a creep!” Headshaking frantically begins. “I’m not creepy! I swear I’m not creepy!”
She kinda sounds creepy.
“I’m calling for security!” the male’s mother viciously shouts at the same time she protectively pushes her son behind her. “Security! Sec-”
Amusement smashes into intrigue leading me to slowly saunter over and announce, “I’m Tucker Frost.”
“Ohthankfuck,” the bombshell in a khaki sweater vest that’s much too hot for June mutters louder than I imagine she intended. “You’re the one I’ve been looking for.”
Her words unexpectedly twist something in my chest, prompting my flirty retort to come out more air than anything else. “I’m glad you found me, Laka.”
“Laka?!” She squeaks in pure perplexity. “Who the hell is Laka?! Am I supposed to go by Laka now?!” The flailing of her arms results in her hitting her elbow. Again. “Did your aunt text you and tell you that you could call me whatever you want to because she does?”
Another unanticipated emotion curls in the same spot the last one did except this one is uglier.
Nastier.
Venomous.
Anger isn’t shit I deal with often and its bigger, bulkier, cousin known as rage is one, I toss around the canvas even less.
Why am I suddenly so pissed off?
Is it because she doesn’t know who Laka is?
Most people unfamiliar with Polynesian culture don’t.
That’s not worth lifting an eyebrow over let alone curling my fist.
Which is fucking curled.
Why?
What the hell am I livid over?
“You can!” The bright brown eyed vixen suddenly insists. “You can totally call me whatever name you want to, if that’s what you want or need! Laka or Blaka or Titikaka. Whatever makes you happy. That’s all that matters. Not me. Nothing about me.”