Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Hmm, how big?” you ask, grabbing her hips, grinding against her. “That big?”
“Bigger,” she says. “Much bigger.”
“Are you trying to make me jealous?”
“Is it working?”
She squeals as you flip her over, onto the bed, and settle right between her legs. You shove material around, and she gasps with the first thrust.
“You changed our lives tonight, baby,” you say. “Happy Dreamiversary.”
You don’t know this, but that woman? As you make love to her, whispering in her ear how much you love her, telling her with every thrust that things are going to be beautiful, she’s believing every single word. And she’s imagining it, how life is going to change, how so many doors are going to open for you. Your dreams are coming true. She lies there, with you on top of her, inside of her, and feels the weight on her easing for the first time in almost a year. Finally… finally… things are looking up. Finally, some good news.
Chapter 19
KENNEDY
“So, bad news…”
Sighing, I drop the small crate onto the floor of the store’s back stockroom and shove it along the wall. I shake my head, refusing to look at Marcus, who stands in the doorway, the bearer of bad news. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“That whole bad news thing,” I say, waving toward him. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s just a bit of a problem.”
“Whatever it is, it’s not my problem.”
“But it is.”
Groaning, I run my hands down my face. “Don’t do this to me, Marcus.”
“Bethany’s feeling sick, so I’m going to send her home.”
“I’m begging you,” I grumble. “Don’t do it.”
“I need you to stay and run her register.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“I opened this morning. I’ve been here since eight o’clock.”
“You got off at three,” he points out.
“And I was back here by five,” I say. “I’ll be back again at eight in the morning. Now you want me to stay until midnight?”
“I wouldn’t ask you if I had another choice,” he says before walking away, just like that, not waiting on a response. He didn’t even actually ask. He assumed I’d stay, because that’s who I am. It’s what I always do.
“Look at me, woo-hoo, assistant manager of the Piggly Q,” I grumble to myself, shoving more crates around before locking up the stockroom. “Doing amazing things with my life.”
I head to the front of the store in just enough time to see Bethany scurry out, looking quite the opposite of sick, but hey, what do I know? The little dance she does, though, as she meets her friends out in the parking lot, is a pretty good indicator that I’m being screwed over.
Awesome.
I’m in a bad mood. I’ve been in one all day. I’m not sure what started it, but I’m on edge. My little quiet life of monotony is feeling more and more like some prank the universe is playing. The fact that LeAnne Rimes' How Do I Live is playing on the store radio pretty much proves that point, I think.
I run the register until the store closes, which means I stand around all night long, my feet angrily screaming from me being on them.
It’s a quarter after midnight when I get to the apartment, slipping inside and locking up.
The lights are off, but the TV is on, playing quietly, the glow of it illuminating the couch, where Jonathan lays with Maddie snuggled up against him. He’s fast asleep, while she’s barely dozing, eyes open but zoned out so much that she hasn’t even noticed me. She was supposed to be in bed hours ago, but I’m too exhausted to be upset about it. Colorful marker covers the white plaster on Jonathan’s wrist. He let her draw on his cast.
Strolling over, I scoop her up in my arms, and she doesn’t resist, already snoring by the time I tuck her in bed.
When I make it back to the living room, Jonathan is sitting up. He runs a hand over his face, groggy, as he asks, “What time is it?”
“After midnight.”
“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, looking me over as I plop down on the couch beside him and kick off my shoes. “Did you just get home?”
“A minute ago,” I say. “Cashier was sick, left early, so I had to close. Got home in just enough time to get some sleep so I can get up tomorrow and do it all over again.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what it’s like in the real world.”
“You don’t think I live in the real world?”
“I think you live in your own world, Jonathan.”
“You could quit,” he suggests.
“And do what? Get a job somewhere else, making minimum wage again?”
“You could stay home,” he says. “Maybe even write, whatever you want to do.”
“That’s not going to pay the bills.”
“But I can.”
I glare at him when he says that.
He stares back at me defiantly.
He looks like he doesn’t even understand what’s wrong with what he’s suggesting.