Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 836(@200wpm)___ 669(@250wpm)___ 558(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 836(@200wpm)___ 669(@250wpm)___ 558(@300wpm)
Rowdy then handed over his credit card and told me to buy whatever I needed to feel at home. I’d swallowed my rejection, knowing it would only lead to an argument. The last time we’d argued about money, my returning to school had been the cause.
We had been cuddled up on the couch, watching a scary movie, and at some point, during the new Conjuring movie, my mind had drifted to money. I’d made the mistake of asking him about his household bills.
Still facing the TV, his wary gaze slid to me, curled up next to him. “Why, Atlas?”
“Because I feel weird living here without contributing anything. It feels like I’m mooching off you.”
Grabbing the remote, Rowdy pressed paused before giving me his full attention. “Do I strike you as a person who can be taken advantage of, Atlas?”
I didn’t even need to think about the answer. “No.”
“Then why are you sitting here thinking of ways to piss me off? What’s the matter?” His brows dipped in contemplation like he was really trying to uncover my true motive for asking. “You want me to pipe you or something?”
I rolled my eyes. Of course, his mannish ass thought everything I did was to get him to fuck me. I mean, occasionally—most of the time—yeah. Definitely. But not now. Not this time. “No, Owen. I’m serious. My paychecks aren’t much—as you know—but I can help out with the smaller bills like the electricity or groceries.”
“Nah.”
“But—”
“I said no. If you want to help me, work on getting that school transfer, as we talked about. Your ass is stalling like you thought I wouldn’t notice, so let’s get this shit understood while it’s in the air. When it comes to you, I’m always three steps ahead. Live it, breathe it, and don’t ever doubt it. I didn’t say anything before because, while I have no problems whatsoever steering this boat, sometimes, I want you to choose us without feeling like I forced your hand. That’s for you, not for me. I kicked morals to the curb a long time ago. You’re young as fuck—so young that some days I struggle to convince myself that wanting you isn’t an affront to nature. Most days, I forget you’re only nineteen with your whole life ahead of you, and I’m back to square one—chasing your bumper. There’s no me without you, so fuck it. Bills are the last thing you should be concerned about. Work on getting that degree, stacking your money, and fulfilling your dreams. I got the rest.”
He stared me down until the blazing warmth that traveled from my cheeks, pooled in my gut, and set my pussy on fire before tickling my toes, finally settled enough for me to whisper, “Okay.”
“Cool.” Rowdy reached for the remote and hit play, his gaze on the screen when he spoke again. “Oh, and, Atlas?”
“Yes, Owen?”
“Don’t ever insult my manhood again.”
Whatever that meant.
When the subject of money came up again, I didn’t bother to suggest I use my own to make this house a home. I just smiled, thanked him, and started making a list.
Still, I started off small by buying a trash can.
While I didn’t mean to disparage anyone’s lifestyle or journey, I could no longer live with a store bag hanging from a random door handle as the trash.
I mean, come on.
The man was almost forty.
I considered ordering a simple ten-dollar one from Target but decided to test the limits of Rowdy’s generosity by buying a ridiculously over-priced stainless-steel gadget that opened with a wave of your hand.
It was hard keeping a straight face when I demonstrated the trash can’s magical powers to Rowdy—especially when I told him how much of his money I’d used to pay for it.
I was both excited and disappointed when he barely reacted with a “That’s what’s up” before leaving the room.
As far as I was concerned, he’d given me the green light to do whatever I wanted, so once the necessities were taken care of, I really started to get creative.
The first argument didn’t start until I bought candles.
Apparently, I could spend a ridiculous three-figure amount on a trash can, but he drew the line at scented candles, saying he didn’t want his house smelling like the back room of a strip club.
Now, I’d never been to a strip club—much less the back room—but I somehow doubted it smelled like strawberry pound cake from Bath and Body Works.
The final straw came when I tried to spruce up our bed with these cute decorative throw pillows I’d found. Rowdy made me watch while he cut them up with a kitchen knife until the stuffing and feathers littered our bedroom floor like a second rug.
Luckily, I’d gotten my period that week, so I was super hormonal, which made it easier to turn on the waterworks. I reminded him through my “uncontrollable sobs” that Ruen’s empty guest room came with an open invitation if he couldn’t get past our creative differences.