Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
I always stay out later than nine because when he gets home he just shuts himself away in the study. We both have our spaces in the house. Places where we can go when we don’t want to be bothered. I typically kick it on the lower level playing video games. But Mercer goes into his study when he wants privacy.
We always end up in bed together that night. He’s always there, waiting for me, when I stumble in.
And last night I didn’t show.
It wasn’t meant as any kind of signal, but there’s no way to deny that it is one now.
He’s still asleep when I walk into the bedroom. Either that, or he’s pretending. So I just hit the shower, clean up, then come out with a towel wrapped around my waist.
He’s not in bed any more. But I can hear him downstairs making coffee or something.
I pull on a pair of jeans and mentally prepare myself for whatever comes next as I walk into the kitchen.
Mercer is wearing gray sweat shorts and he’s making something at the stove, his back to me. But he glances over his shoulder when I take a seat at the huge soapstone island. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Omelet?”
“Sure.”
And that’s all he says. Just puts another frying pan on the stove, cracks some eggs into it, and resumes his cooking.
I figure it’s my fault this is awkward, so I should just be a man about shit. “Sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here last night. How was—”
“You know what?” He cuts me off. Doesn’t look at me, just pokes at the fucking eggs. “I’m really not interested, Locke.”
“You’re not interested in what?”
“Where you were, what you were doing, why you’re even here right now.”
“Why wouldn’t I be here?”
He scoffs, gives me a one-second glance over his shoulder. “You’re been trying to leave for years now. Ever since Olsen—”
“That’s not true.”
He shuts the stove off and slides two omelets onto two plates. Then turns around, crosses his arms, and leans against the counter. “You were with him last night.”
I shrug with my hands. “It was the Fourth. I’m always with him on the Fourth because you—”
“Don’t. Don’t blame this on me. I’m the one who’s here every night. I’m the one who doesn’t get attached.”
I don’t know what to say to that. He fucks other people way more than I do. So it’s not about… monogamy, or whatever. But he’s right. He doesn’t get attached. Because he’s incapable of getting attached. He just uses people. Everyone. In fact, he’s probably using me for something too, I’m just not smart enough to figure out what it is.
I’ve said this to him before. Lots of people have. Every woman he’s ever been with for sure.
But it’s not something I say casually because he knows it’s true.
When you’re having a… what to call it? A mandatory fight, a fight where you need to clear the air, or be mad about something, or start a new negotiation—you do not pull out the big guns and start throwing uncomfortable truths into someone’s face. You half-ass it. Because you’re not trying to blow it all up, you just need to win the battle.
And we’ve had this fight before. Lots of times. So I pretty much have a script. I start there. “I’m not in love with Olsen.”
Mercer laughs. “Olsen? I’m not talking about Olsen.”
“You literally just asked me if I was with him.”
“I did. Because I knew she was with him. So you were with her.”
Mercer is just looking at me with that look he has perfected. I almost smile at him. But he’s pissed, so I let him be pissed.
“Why?”
“Why?” I shrug. “Is this a real question? She’s hot, Mercer. You put her across the sidewalk from Olsen.”
“I’m not talking about that and you know it. I’m talking about the other shit.”
“The handjobs?” I scoff. “You’re pissed off about a couple of handjobs?”
“I’m not pissed off, I asked you a question. You know she’s important to me. You know because you’re in the fucking lab. Yet you stalked her and—”
“I didn’t stalk her, OK? She was there. Lost.” I point at him. “That was Olsen’s fault.”
“She got in late.”
“She was still lost. I helped her out and then I waited around. That’s pretty much all I did.”
“Well, she told me that you invited her into the woods and then helped her help you.”
“So? I didn’t force her. She did it because she wanted to. And she came back to me because she wanted more.”
He makes lazy, sexy eyes at me.
There is no way I can stop the laugh.
“It’s not funny. You’re gonna fuck up my project.”
“It’s our project. And I’m not fucking it up. It’s just… fucking.”
“It’s a threesome.”
“So you are mad about that.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re jealous.”
“I’m really not.”
“You could always join in. I’m sure she’d be up for it.”