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)
“They made their bed every single time,” O’Malley forces. “But why are you so fucking intent on rolling around in those dirty sheets, man? It’s disgusting. Get out.”
Get out.
Like it’s so easy.
Like I haven’t tried.
I taste acid, and I swear he’s the only one that digs this deep under my skin. I try to breathe out a hot breath, to calm down. “You don’t get it.”
“I don’t get that you’re so fucked up in the head, you’re still sympathizing with the people who kidnapped Luna. Your so-called girlfriend.”
“Sympathizing?” My face twists. “I coulda killed them myself. You weren’t in that house. You have no…” I swallow the words, glaring at the elevator buttons.
“Your parents—”
“They weren’t even involved,” I interject. “Leave ‘em out of this.”
He’s quiet for a beat, taking a second to respond—which he rarely does. But then he says, “The Donnellys are all the same. You drag each other down. Your dad will drag you down too.” His blue eyes bore into mine like a jackhammer, and I wonder if there’s a warning in them.
Get out.
Even if I could, staying in contact with my dad is still a necessity for security at this point. They need me to be in communication with him, and there’s a part of me that wants to throw it back in O’Malley’s face. To prove to him he’s wrong. That my parents are better. They have changed.
“O’Malley,” Beckett says gently.
“I’m done,” O’Malley mutters, rotating away from me.
I inhale and exhale, trying not to seethe, and the elevator jerks back to life. Appreciation, elevator gods. The second the doors slide open, I’m out. My stride is hot and quick to the gym. Luckily, Beckett asks O’Malley if he can stay posted outside.
I can escape that oxygen-sucking black hole, at least.
The sleek gym houses state-of-the-art machines, a water bottle refilling station, several racks of free weights and medicine balls, and televisions that air GBA News. It always smells like bleach and lemon, a familiar scent. Can’t even count all the times I’ve worked out here with Beckett back when I was his bodyguard.
Now I’m here as something else to him. Not sure what. Feels more like we’re in a friend limbo.
The gym is empty, outside of an older man crushing a workout on an elliptical. He’s wearing earbuds and too in the zone to pay attention to us.
“Weights or treadmill first?” I ask Beckett, knowing his routine flipflops between the two.
“Whichever you’d like.” He pops the cap of his water and takes a swig.
I throw up a loose finger-horns, then nod to the treadmill.
After a quick stretch, we choose two machines side-by-side, and I fuck with the settings on mine—debating whether I wanna go my absolute hardest or do a light jog.
The only time I ever workout on a treadmill is with Beckett. Back when Loren asked me if I run, I feel like I blocked this whole thing out. I pushed Beckett so far out of my brain. The thought of reaching there was too painful, and it’s strange that I’m here now.
And there is no ache. Not even the slightest burn from a cut. It feels easy, as easy as this used to be with him. Maybe it’s ‘cause he’s not butchering me to open up about O’Malley or my parents. He’s leaving that conversation outside the doors.
It’s the type of friendship I love.
It never asks too much of me. It never rips me open.
It just sews me back together.
Beckett catches my eyes and says, “Race you?”
Like old times.
The corner of my mouth curves upward. “Alright. Let’s see if you can keep a three-minute sprint without huffing and puffing.”
“Funny,” he smiles over at me. “You probably haven’t run in two years. You’ve packed on—what, ten pounds of muscle?”
I grin. “Thanks for noticing, man.” I press two fingers to my lips and blow him a kiss with them.
He grins back. “One-minute intervals?”
“Yeah. Start at three miles-per-hour.” We walk at level three.
A minute passes, and at the same time, we both increase the speed to four. Then five, six. Our walk morphs into an easy jog.
We’re facing floor-to-ceiling windows. On the fifteenth level of a high-rise, it’s almost as if we’re running through the skyline. We see New York in all its glamorous, rugged beauty. Like Philly, this one has its charm and its destruction.
Think that’s what makes it so beautiful. It’s not perfect. Nothing real is.
Ten mph, and we’re at a sprint, our stride lengthy. Sweat has built on our brows, and we keep casting glances over at each other. To see who’s gonna bail first.
He gives me a thumbs-up—not to tell me he’s doing well, but that it’s time to increase the speed. Eleven mph, and my blood is hot. I breathe deep measured breaths. My tendons shriek at the fierce stretch, but it’s a good burn. I’m flying through New York.