Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
No one should be coming here. Not family, not security, and definitely not any fucking stranger. The location of the lake house is a mystery to the public. It’s been a secret for decades.
I detach the radio on my waistband and unspool the mic cord. I fit the earpiece in and switch on comms. “Farrow to Thatcher.” I speak into the mic, radioing the Omega lead since he’s in charge of the positions of the men. Yeah, I read that fucking doorstopper rulebook front to back. “Is anyone making a pit stop at the lake house?”
Comms crackle.
And his strict voice fills the line. “Negative.”
I move into action. “Maximoff!” I yell and sprint towards the house. Arkham jumps after me and barks little high-pitched puppy barks.
Maximoff fills the doorway, scanning the empty road, then me. “What’s wrong?”
“Get Ripley.” I run up the porch stairs. “Stay inside.”
He’s already picking Ripley out of the chair. Not arguing about ensuring the safety of our son. He just does it.
Right as Maximoff hoists our baby against his chest, a black SUV rolls along the gravel road.
I block Maximoff.
“Isn’t that…?” he trails off.
My muscles loosen. “That’s a security vehicle.” I click my mic. “Farrow to Thatcher, are you sure security isn’t coming here?”
His voice is in my ear. “Unless someone is lying, no one should be at the lake house but your family.”
I hawk-eye the SUV, the vehicle crawling up beside our parked Audi. The ignition cuts off.
“Who do you think it is?” Maximoff asks under his breath.
I shake my head, unsure.
We don’t have long to speculate. The door swings open, and a pair of black boots touch the gravel. I skim the ripped jeans and an old Van Halen shirt and chestnut brown hair.
That blue-eyed shameless motherfucker.
I head down the porch. “Donnelly? What are you doing here?”
He shuts the car door and stuffs his hands in his jeans. “I was in the neighborhood.”
The lake house isn’t a place you leisurely drive by, so he’s full of shit.
Maximoff still holds Ripley and follows me off the porch. “Everything okay, man?”
“Yeah.” Donnelly watches Arkham chase his own tail. He looks up at me. “I think your mini-horse is broken.”
I’d laugh, but I’m still confused as fuck. “You need a place to crash?”
“Nah, I’m just stopping by.” He gestures to my chest. “Hey, you see the news lately?” His mouth lifts in a smirk.
“I haven’t looked up anything.” I pry my earpiece out and wind the cord back around the radio.
Maximoff stands more rigid. “What happened?”
“Docuseries aired the car crash episode,” Donnelly explains to him. “Social media is obsessed with Farrow now. They’re saying you and him are a power couple, and Farrow cares about you in a selfless way. Which is what I’ve been trying to tell everyone.”
I know Donnelly has been in a few Twitter fights with trolls who called me a controlling fame whore. To the point where Akara told Donnelly to suspend his Twitter account.
The docuseries helped, and I didn’t really expect the show to sway even a fourth of naysayers. I did the docuseries to be closer to Maximoff and to share my perspective of our lives. It’s possible one day public opinion will spin in a worse direction. And I’ll have to be okay with that, and I know I will be.
Because right now, I would’ve held my own even if the response was indifference or even more hate. But I can’t lie: knowing I’ll have a reprieve from the onslaught of comments like “you’ve ruined Maximoff” and “he should divorce you” does feel good.
Maximoff is smiling.
I inhale. “Damn.” I smile more too, clipping the radio back on my waistband, but confusion still knots my brows as I face Donnelly. “You drove all the way to the Smoky Mountains just to tell us that?”
“Nah.” His eyes are trained on mine; a lot is in them. Years, an entire decade.
Something happened.
Is he in trouble? “Can I do anything for you?” I wonder.
Donnelly shakes his head. “It’s time I do something for you.” He digs in his back pocket and slips out a folded stack of stapled papers. He hangs onto them for another minute. “You’re gonna ask what I did to make this happen, and before I give you this, I want to tell you that I’m alright. That’s all you need to know.”
“Donnelly—”
“That’s all you need to know,” he repeats with emphasis.
My eyes sear and they roll halfway around the yard. I care about him, and I don’t love the idea that he did something stupid for me. But we’re also not the kind of friends who nag the hell out of each other. I reach for the papers. “Give them over.”
“It’s just a copy.” Donnelly hands the stapled stack to me. “The lawyers have the real thing.”
Ripley sips on juice while Maximoff sidles close to me, peering at the papers as I unfold them.