Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Most people who go to high school together don’t stay friends.
Just like most couples who dated in high school don’t keep dating long after.
College – or so I’ve been told – is where both of those real connections get made.
I wouldn’t fucking know.
And part of me hates myself for not knowing.
For not taking a better path.
Making better choices.
Having done anything she could be proud of.
Fuck, that I could be proud of.
Yeah, getting clean and staying clean is some monumental shit but in comparison…in comparison to my college graduate, successful business owning girlfriend, it’s dogshit.
An itch for something to distract from the building resentment appears in the back of my throat as I stomp over to where the ball landed. “What’d you study?”
“I majored in Early Childhood Education and minored in business.”
Fuck me, of course she had a major and a minor while I don’t even have the fucking certification, I need to do more than grunt work around the garage.
I hit the little object once more with more force than necessary. It bounces around the area only to land right back where I started. “Fuck!”
“Hey,” she sweetly states, gently grabbing by the wrist, “what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Ry.”
The tone, the guilt of her gaze, the weight of fucking failure scratch at my senses in desperation for something to soothe the demon that’s now stirring.
“Ry, talk to me,” she pleads, a little sharpness in her speech. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing!” I explode louder than intended. “You didn’t do anything fucking wrong. I fucked up. I should’ve gone to fucking college. I should’ve been hittin’ the fucking books like McCoy not doing drops for drug dealers! I should’ve had my ass in fucking class, so that you wouldn’t be so goddamn ashamed to introduce me to your best friend! I should’ve gotten a degree and a good job so I wouldn’t be stuck as bitch boy at fucking car garage who can barely afford to take his girlfriend out on a goddamn date!” Tingling sensations violently swirl around my mouth, whispering to me that they’ll calm down if I have just one little taste. One little puff. One single inhale. Now overwhelmed by my frustrations along with my addiction, I gripe under my breath, “Fuck, I could really use a cigarette.”
Without warning Pres drops her gear, grabs a fist full of my polo, and pulls me down to her. Our lips sloppily smash together while her nails claw at my abs through the material. I groan from the scrapes. Lean forward into them. Succumb to the scratches at the same time my tongue is stroked into surrender by hers. Her taking and maintaining control causes my cock to thump in my jeans, demanding she force him into submission next.
The abrupt ending matches the abrupt beginning. She presents me with the softest, sweetest smile I know I don’t deserve. “Better?”
“Better than any goddamn cigarette could ever be.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s the fucking truth.”
Her grip loosens to an open palm. “For not smoking. For not giving into the craving. For fighting through it so damn hard.”
I don’t need her gratitude, but fuck, it feels good to have it.
“You usually keep toothpicks on hand, right?”
“It uh…help calm the shit down. Distracts me. It was trick I picked up in rehab.”
“You just need something in your mouth to soothe you?”
“I’m not a fucking baby in need of a goddamn binky.”
“Don’t make me put my tongue back in your mouth, young man,” she playfully chastises, successfully loosening the tension.
Laughter thoughtlessly seeps free forcing my shoulders to lower.
The grip on my club to unclench.
Pres reaches into her tiny brown purse, digs around for a moment, and pulls something out that she immediately offers to me. “Try sucking on this and see if it helps.”
I focus my gaze on the grape Jolly Rancher being held up to me.
“And if it doesn’t, we’ll stop by the store on the way back to my place and pick up some toothpicks that I can carry around in my purse for emergencies. Deal?”
It’s impossible to not lovingly say, “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“No, so it’s nice to hear it,” she good-naturedly jabs. “Take it.”
The transferring is swift.
“And I’m not ashamed of you, Ry.”
Her words wind up the bitter feelings again prompting me to shove the candy into my mouth at a faster rate.
“You have a job. You make a paycheck. You take care of yourself and your bills and those are incredible achievements especially for someone bouncing back from an addiction. As far as affording shit for us,” her finger gestures itself around in the space, “for me? I never asked you to do that. You’re the one who fights with me about paying for shit, which I am happy to do because it creates less stress for you and has you working less hours, which then means more time for me. And that’s all I really give a shit about, Ry. Us spending time together. I don’t care if we just end up binging James Bond movies and cooking ramen together. I just want to be with you.”