Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
"Stop," Andi hissed, leading me toward the door where people were still shuffling out, angry they'd had their night-out cut short.
"Give me your keys," Hope demanded, catching up.
"No," I objected.
"You're in no shape to ride," she shot back, rolling her eyes.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Andi told me, voice firm.
"Here," my father said, tossing keys at Hope. "I took the SUV from the clubhouse. Take them back there. I'll find my kid's keys and bring his bike back."
"Come on," Andi said, releasing my hand to wrap her arm around my lower back instead, her other hand pressing into my stomach gently. "Let's get you home. I need to look at that cut on your face," she added as we all got in the SUV. Hope moved up front, but Andi slid in beside me in the back.
I didn't want to appreciate her generous spirit. Even though I'd been a dick to her, she was going to take care of me, sit with me. And I was going to let her, despite the alarm bells going off in my head, telling me this was dangerous territory, that I should turn back now before it was too late.
But all I could focus on was the feel of her hand as it settled on my knee, the warmth of her body at my side, the smell of her rose-scented perfume she'd worn since as far back as I could remember.
I just let her sit with me, shuffle me into the clubhouse, and then lead me back to my room, a place I'd wanted to have her come with me more times than I could remember.
It was stupid.
Dangerous.
But I couldn't bring myself to care.
Chapter Eight
Andi
I was not, as a general rule, a brave woman.
I left that to my aunts, to my cousins, to my friends.
That was not how I operated.
I was not someone who picked someone's pocket. I had never even considered trying before.
I was certainly not someone who threw herself between two men engaged in a nasty fight.
Yet that was what I did.
And I knew why.
Because it didn't matter what he was like now, Niro always had been and would always be important to me.
My heart is a messy liar, all my truths shoved under the bed, spilling out of half-closed dresser drawers.
I would never be any good at saying I didn't love him.
Even if I wanted to say those words more than anything.
Because it would make it easier.
Because he was a man who no longer wanted my love.
Regardless, though, it was still there. I knew myself well enough to know there was nothing that I could do about it.
He was my oldest friend, my deepest friend.
When he needed me, I would be there.
And his stubborn butt needed me, no matter how much he was trying to grin and bear it.
He was a mess.
I'd seen Niro after a lot of fights over the years, but he'd never looked quite so rough before. Really, he should have been going to the hospital to get his head and ribs looked at. But I knew him well enough to know he wouldn't go unless a bone was poking out of the skin or he was bleeding out the ears or something.
Stubborn, just like his father.
It was a trait I both respected and loathed, depending on the situation. I liked that he had strong convictions, that he stuck to them, that he tried hard, that he saw things through to completion. But it also made him bull-headed and resistant to what I thought were valid arguments.
"You've done so much with the place," I teased as I led him into his room that was just as barren now as it had been when he'd moved into it. White walls, a black metal bed frame, white sheets with a black comforter all askew, a black dresser, and black nightstands. No artwork, no knick-knacks. Nothing personal at all.
The only thing there that hadn't been there when he moved in was the round dog bed in the corner behind the door.
Nugget's bed.
There was even a stuffed lamb situated on it still.
There was a gut-punch sensation seeing it there, knowing how important Nugget had been in his life. Before I came and took him away. And he'd barely ever seen him again.
Hell, I would become cold and distant too.
God, I was such a jerk.
"What?"
"What what?" I asked, shaking the negative thoughts away, avoiding his gaze as I led him through his bedroom and into his attached bath, knowing he could read me too well if he saw my face.
The bathroom was smaller than my old college apartment one. I swear you could touch all four walls if you stood in the center and threw your arms out. And aside from a razor and shaving cream on the sink counter—that clearly hadn't been used in a while given his stubble—there wasn't much around that was personal here either.