Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“We should’ve ordered food,” Akara mutters.
“Oscar has food in his hotel room,” Donnelly says.
Oscar swigs his whiskey. “If you’re talking about the cookies, they’re gone. I let the crew have the tin for two seconds, and they ate all of them.”
Everyone groans.
“Audrey’s cookies?” I’m guessing. I heard that my youngest cousin mailed homemade cookies to the hotel. Just for Oscar.
“Yeah…it’s…you know, she’s young.” He finishes off his whiskey, almost wincing. She’s twelve and putting him in a weird spot. I’m starting to think she’s going a bit overboard since he works for our families.
And he’s thirty. I have no fucking clue why she can’t crush on a kid around her age.
“I’m sorry, man.” I rub my jaw. “I can try talking to Audrey.”
“Don’t. I wouldn’t want to break the girl’s heart,” he says. “It’ll pass.”
Farrow nods. “When she’s prescribed glasses.”
Oscar chucks the peanut bowl, but it sails towards me. I grab the bowl midair before Farrow reaches over, and he glares at Oscar, shaking his head.
“Just hitting you where it hurts,” Oscar tells him. “Go for Redford’s boyfriend, and you awake the—”
“Fuck you,” Farrow says easily and hurls the bowl back like a Frisbee.
It knocks over Quinn’s glass and shatters on the floor.
“Shit,” Farrow curses.
“Party foul.” Donnelly stands and tosses down some napkins on the glass.
Akara mentions taking care of the spill and broken glass later, and we’re only one hand away from finishing the game.
Oscar and I face off with a dice-roll, and a bet—fuck.
Me.
Oscar grins and passes the baseball hat to me after my loss. “Last one, bro.”
I dig in the hat and grab a truth or dare. “Dare,” I say aloud, “read the last dirty text you sent.” A dying groan is strangled between my ribs. Before anyone else can react, two guys around my age slip into the bar and their eyes widen at me.
Spotted.
Donnelly whispers, “Under the table.”
“I’m not hiding under the table.” They already see me. It’s a lost cause.
“Maximoff Hale!” one shouts, approaching our table. He wears a Chicago Cubs T-shirt, and his friend has on a Superheroes & Scones beanie.
All the bodyguards are quietly alert, and Farrow is sitting too close to me. He knows it, and in a sly second, he slides off the stool while unwrapping a piece of gum.
And he extends a hand to them, “Watch out for the glass.” He motions to the napkins.
“Oh shit,” one guy says and steps around the broken glass. Nearing me. I stand off the stool, but I rest my forearm on the table. It’s hard to tell if he’s a fan, a guy who likes comics, or a troll.
They ask if they can shake my hand, and you know what, the strangest thing happens. My gut reaction is no. I almost never say no to a fan.
I think about how Farrow Keene lingers a foot next to me. How if I shake their hands and they throw a drink, a punch or pull a knife, my bodyguard will block their path.
And he’ll be the one doused with liquor. Hit in the face.
Or god-fucking-forbid, stabbed.
Telling Farrow to not do his job—that’s not an option. But I’m realizing that if I want to protect him, I need to step back.
Whenever I can, I need to be more careful. He can’t take a bullet for me if the gun is never loaded. And I’m not scared of what people can do to me. I’ve always been afraid of what they can do to the people I love.
And I fucking love him.
So in a resolute, unwavering moment, I tell the guys, “No, sorry. Not tonight.”
Farrow’s eyes flash to me, surprise in them.
“It’ll be super fast,” the geeky guy says.
“Sorry,” I say, not budging.
Farrow adds, “The bar is closed.”
The sportier guy points to the Jack Daniels. “Then how’d you get that?”
“We’re special,” Oscar says.
“Whiskey?” the geekier guy says with the shake of his head. He puts his hands on his S&S beanie and looks to me. “You shouldn’t be drinking, dude.”
It almost makes me smile, how much he speaks like we’re best friends. I like that I’m something for someone out there, and maybe I was for him. When he needed the idea of me, I existed.
“I know,” I tell him.
“You’re supposed to be sober,” he says, genuinely concerned.
“Still am. I promise.”
The Chicago Cubs guy sways a little like he’s been drinking, and he points at me. “Danny is right. Stay away from the booze.”
Thatcher rotates on his stool. “Maybe you two should call it a night?” His tone is like an older brother to a little sibling.
“Can we get some selfies first?” Danny asks, pushing his beanie off and fixing his auburn hair.
“Not tonight,” I tell them.
“Really?” His shoulders sag, bummed, and that’s the worst part. But weighing the safety of my boyfriend over the two-minute happiness of a fan, there’s no contest.