Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Something seems out of sorts—more so than usual.
I can’t pinpoint what until my eyes fall on his tattered boot.
A single lonely, ripped-up boot.
Fuck.
So that’s why he looks worse than usual. He’s missing his goddamned leg. I swallow.
“Wyatt, what happened to the—?”
“Asshole with a knife jacked it last week,” he says dully. “I clocked him good in the nose, but he shoved me on the ground and...yeah.”
I stare at the empty space, anger surging through my veins. “Someone stole your prosthetic? For fuck’s sake, why?”
“Why not? I’ve lost everything else. What the hell’s one more fake limb added to the pile?” He laughs bitterly.
It’s a ruthless gut punch, and he didn’t even mean it to be.
There are a lot of things in his life he didn’t mean.
The man just doesn’t give two shits anymore—not even about his own life—and that’s why that job falls to me now.
My jaw tightens as I look at him, already working on his second roll. If only he wasn’t so far up his own ass. I could at least protect him from being preyed on by vultures and punk-ass kids willing to rob homeless vets for drug money.
I’ve made the same offer a million times. Now that he’s one leg short, will he finally be more open? Will he swallow his pride?
“You know I’ve got an entire heated guesthouse and no company,” I say slowly. “If you want to crash, you could—”
“No,” he spits back, giving me a scorned look.
There’s nothing I will ever hate about this man except for his suicidal ego.
Hell, the rejection was out like a shot, before I even finished. That’s faster than usual.
“It’s detached. It would be like having your own place,” I say, not ready to give up. “It sits there whether anyone uses it or not. Sometimes I wonder why I have the damn thing when nobody visits.”
He shakes his head like I’m forcing a ghost pepper up his nose.
“Try your charity on somebody else, Burns. There are folks here with reasons to live who need a good sleep and a hot shower a whole lot more than I do, like Miss Green Thumb a few tents down. You want to help, offer it to her. I’m beyond that shit. Don’t need it. I like my tent and washing off at the Y just fine.”
I let out a frustrated growl. I can’t fucking help it.
I can’t help how seeing him give up rips me in two.
Yeah, it’s no surprise. I knew he was sailing into rough waters the minute he wound up on the streets. I’ve also never heard him sound quite so sure about being done until now.
It’s not him. He’s a fighter by nature.
He was, I should say, before that evil bitch destroyed him.
Before he began the slow, agonizing fall into the black pit of misery he’s in now.
He’ll never get over her, and he can’t pull his life back together until he does.
“Look, Wyatt. I’m not here to save you from yourself. We’ve both been through hell together. All I’m offering is a break from all this for a day, a week...whatever. Take a vacation and come back here recharged. There’s no good fucking reason why you can’t crash in my vacant guesthouse so we can have drinks together at the end of the day, and you know it.”
He snorts dismissively.
“We can do that anyway. You’re here now. No point in me mooching off my best friend or stinking up space someone else could use. Your rich neighbors and maid are gonna think you’ve lost your mind, moving some random homeless guy in. And fuck, your mom—”
“You’re not some random homeless guy,” I say sharply. “You’re my best friend. I wouldn’t be here without you.” I inhale sharply, feeling ghostly vibrations ripping through solid bone from that day. Even my muscle memory is keenly aware I’d be six feet under without Wyatt Emory. “You saved my life and you can’t even crash at my place for a single night?”
He shakes his head like a bull, pulling at his wiry beard.
“It’s nothing. If shit went the other way, you would’ve saved me too. You don’t even have to keep up with the cinnamon rolls or my life. Hell, I don’t even want to keep up with my life.”
That’s obvious, and a deep, toxic depression talking. I wish I could somehow reach inside him and rip it out of him like a parasite worm.
I hate that he’s his own worst enemy.
Always too proud to accept any help.
Only, now I’m afraid he might be too scarred, too damaged to ever consider it.
Where the hell does that leave me trying to help him?
Do I just throw my hands up and watch a good man die?
Should I bother continuing this conversation?
I hold in a sigh because I’m afraid I’ll exhale my soul. Talk is cheap, and tonight, it’s damn near worthless.