Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Of course he would. He surely would do anything to free himself from Frank and the obligation to keep him company.
Ros beamed at him. “You can? I’m pretty sure Frank has an old bicycle you could use if Frank’s other car is still broken.”
Of course. Why not point out another failure in Frank’s life? He never got around to fixing the damn Dodge because he used the truck most of the time anyway, so the other vehicle wasn’t a priority.
“I’ll check on that car,” Frank said, picking apart the chicken. Because what else was he to say? ‘No, Ezra, you can’t come here because I like looking at you too much’? It would be for the better if Ezra had something else to do during their forced cohabitation, because the tension inside Frank accumulated each day, and it could not be eased by breaking more glass.
“You would? That would be amazing. You spend most of the day away, and maybe Ros could use some assistance?” Ezra asked, gently helping the puppy off as he sat up.
“Oh, definitely. They’re a handful, and the other dogs need daily exercise too.” Ros nodded, petting one of the puppies with a wide smile.
Frank didn’t miss the way Shane’s eyes became softer when he watched his boyfriend, and he tried to not be jealous, he really did, but his own ship had sailed, and the little bit of joy he’d shared with Ezra got snatched away from him too.
Everyone around him coupled up, and he was happy for them, but it was always a reminder that his own lifestyle was not conducive to having a partner, especially since he’d always fallen for men he could not have.
“All right, seeing you in those wet clothes is making me shiver. Let’s get you something dry,” Ros decided, rising from the floor.
“They’ve already dried. I’m warm-blooded,” Ezra said with a quick peek Frank’s way, “but I need more than one pair of pants and a single T-shirt.”
Frank was on the verge of apologizing, as if it were in any way his fault that Ezra didn’t have all the best clothes he could dream of. So he bit into the chicken instead, because this was ridiculous. He didn’t owe Ezra anything. He was helping the guy because he wanted to. Because it was the right thing to do for someone he’d spent so much lovely time with.
As soon as Ros and Ezra disappeared upstairs, Shane kicked Frank’s foot under the table. “Did you hear that, Frank? He needs more. Are you only giving him half your dick at a time?”
Frank grunted with his mouth full. “We’re not fucking.”
Shane rose and approached the kitchen to grab two beers. “Bullshit. I’ve known you far too long to eat up this kind of lie,” he said and put both bottles on the table.
“Well, I’m not. The only reason he’s here is because he’s in trouble. I couldn’t tell you over the phone. It’s some deep shit I still haven’t worked out how to get him out of. In the meanwhile, is he eye candy? Sure. But I’m not getting to suck it.”
And oh how much he'd love to suck Ezra. Preferably with those pretty eyes blindfolded, wrists cuffed together, legs wide open. Bondage was something they’d never gotten to, and while Frank accepted that people liked what they liked, it bothered him that he had a feeling Ezra rejected that kind of play for safety reasons, not because it simply wasn’t his thing. Otherwise, why would he be so into being overpowered and held down?
Which was something Frank needed to stop thinking about if he was to not get hard in the middle of Shane's living room.
Shane opened his bottle and took a swig of the cool beer, petting Hera’s head when she settled next to him, interested in the food left on the table. This moment felt achingly familiar. The home Shane now shared with Ros was way nicer than the shack Frank had lived in when Shane first joined him at the junkyard, way before his prison sentence, but sitting like this and sipping beer together was a callback to that peaceful time. How many years had it been? Fifteen? Shane had been a presence in Frank’s life for so long he couldn’t count it anymore.
“Since when do you know a guy pretty enough to be a model? And where did you meet him?”
“He’s a massage therapist. I’ve got this thing with my shoulder,” Frank said, not believing it himself, but that was the lie Jag had gotten fed, so sooner or later, Shane would have heard it. To avoid looking into Shane’s lie-detector eyes, he focused on opening his beer.
“Really? What kind of massage does he specialize in?”
Hah, of course the cover story sounded shady but they couldn’t change it anymore.