Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
“So what?” he shoots back.
“It’s too soon.”
“Alright…” He draws out the word, not happy about the rejection, but then he says, “What about Loren Hale?”
I go rigid again. “What about him?”
“You gonna introduce me since you two are so buddy-buddy?” I catch notes of bitterness in his voice.
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“Why not? You like him, don’t you?”
“Barely,” I lie, avoiding Luna for a second.
“Well, you’re always hanging around him every time I call. I wanna meet the man who’s in my son’s life. You can make it happen, can’t you?” He sounds more impatient than threatening. “It’s coffee, for Christ’s sake. I’m not asking to attend his father-in-law’s funeral.”
He heard about Greg’s death then. News must’ve broken online.
“I gotta talk to him. I’ll let you know.”
“K. If you want my advice before you go, poke a hole in it.”
“In what?”
“The condom. Nothing says a free ride in life like getting a Hale pregnant.” At this, Luna’s eyes have grown five-sizes too big, and I realize it’s so quiet in this car and my dad is talking so fucking loudly that she can hear everything.
Fuuuck. I scrape my fingers through my hair. “That’s not happening.”
“Think about it.”
“Nah, I’m good. I gotta go.”
“See ya soon.”
I hang up and immediately twist towards Luna. “What you heard—I’d never fucking do to you. Ever. Ever.”
Luna closes her lips that’ve fallen open. “It’sokayit’sokay,” she slurs together, speaking quickly. She edges closer to touch my arm, and I can’t contain how much what he said is devastating me. My chest rises and falls with heavy aggression, and I smear my palm down my agonized face.
She splays a calm hand on my thigh. “With the strength of Thebula, I compel you!”
I choke out a sudden laugh. Smiling. I’m smiling. Almost instantly. “What are you compelling me to do?”
“To feel better.” She shrugs. “It’s all I have.”
I blink back more emotion. “It’s a lot,” I choke out, then clear my throat. “What he suggested, that’s not who I am. I need you to know that.”
“I know that,” she says unwaveringly.
I nod a couple times, aching to cup her cheek and kiss her. But knowing my luck, this date will come to an abrupt halt before it can start if we don’t get out of this fucking car. So I slip my phone in my pocket. “You ready, space babe? Your universe awaits.”
“Ours,” she corrects, opening the door. Our universe. My ruptured heart feels full.
8
LUNA HALE
Original Luna has many fake IDs. I discovered this fun fact after a quick search of my childhood bedroom tonight. I am Chani Hawkins. Age 23. With the hood of my hoodie concealing my hair and shadowing my face, I feel unassuming, like a specter in the night. Not like the Luna Hale, daughter of notorious sex addict and alcoholic. Girl who writes tentacle smut. Girl who was kidnapped.
The bouncer appraises my ID, barely giving it a second glance. He doesn’t even ask for Donnelly’s. “You two have fun.” Our breaths smoke the air, but Donnelly really does seem impervious to the Philly cold. He’s not shivering. He reaches above my head to hold the door open for me.
On our way inside, I ask, “Why didn’t he card you?”
“I have over twenty-one tattooed on my neck. Didn’t you see?” He’s teasing me. I’ve only seen three stars inked behind his ear. No tattoos crawl up his neck or decorate his throat.
“Really, though,” I say, hearing the thump of an old rock song before I scan the completely dead bar. Pink neon lights swirl around the ceiling rafters, and the wooden stools and tables are empty of all patrons—sober and drunk. The lone bartender is texting behind a row of clean beer taps. I ask Donnelly, “Do you know him or something?”
I worry Donnelly called ahead and shut down the bar for us.
Normally, this would present itself like an epic grand gesture of princess proportions, but the façade is more depressing than exciting to me. I’d rather risk my dangerous reality than live inside that kind of fantasy.
He slides his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t recognize him. I used to barhop over here with Farrow. But it’s been a while. They probably hired a new bouncer.” He slides a stool out of the way, so we can stand at the bar. “I don’t always get carded anymore. Comes with looking closer to twenty-nine than twenty-one.”
“Oh,” I realize. “And I look…”
“Cute,” he smirks.
“Cute and young,” I sing-song.
He grins over at me, then up-nods to the bartender. “Hey, man, can we get two vodka Fizzes.” The bartender mimes an okay, then begins pouring liquor and soda together.
“You want to do shots with me?” I ask him.
Donnelly leans sexily on the bar. “Watcha have in mind? Irish car bomb?”
I crinkle my nose. “I don’t like stouts.” A car bomb involves dropping a shot of whiskey and Irish cream into a dark-colored beer. Eliot would drink them more if they weren’t so heavy, and he’s the sole reason why I’ve tried them on occasion.