Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
“It was… embarrassingly terrifying but needle-free, and I can’t really afford to pay out of pocket right now, so it was kind of the only option.”
And I was suitably sedated, plus or minus a Xanax or two.
His brows pull in close, and he gives a slow nod.
For a moment, he simply stares, seemingly lost in thought, but his grumpy little glare comes back, and he looks at his phone again.
If there’s one thing about Crew Taylor that drives me mad, it’s his ability to live in the in-between, where you show no sign of being happy or glad, mad or sad, serious or playful.
You name it, and his signals are crossed. He can go from calm, cool, and collected to ripping a dude out of a chair with no warning and serving up a fresh fistful. You never know how he feels until the moment he’s ready for you to.
He and my brother were opposite in that way.
Memphis wore his emotions proudly. If he was upset, he wanted you to know. Happy, he was eager to share why. On more than one occasion, I witnessed him walk up to a total stranger and ask if they were okay, simply offering them someone to talk with. He would say he felt they needed it, and so there he was, an ear for anyone who needed one. Of course, it worked both ways.
The source of Memphis’s anger was made unmistakably clear, but it was Crew who would step in when that happened. It was part of the reason he and Crew fit so well as friends: what one lacked, the other made up for in spades.
Not to say they weren’t similar; they were. Their likes and dislikes were matched, be it games or food, clothes or hairstyles. Both were silly and shameless, outspoken, and athletic, so much so, they’d bet on who could get a random girl’s number at the fairs or school football games.
Baseball was their game of choice, so they ate up all the attention they could snag under the Friday night lights.
There was so much bait tossed their way; it’s a shock they didn’t puke.
Pretty sure I gagged a time or two.
But there was always a different kind of shadow that hovered over Crew, and sometimes, he couldn’t quite step out from under it.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” Crew complains with a quick flick of his gaze.
“You don’t have work until seven.”
His head snaps upright as my lips smack closed, my eyes bulging, but only for a second.
I’m about to apologize when his familiar chuckle warms the air, and this time, while it only holds for a split second, his grin slips free, the small scar along his chin becoming more defined, revealing a new one just left of the other.
Yeah, he’s textbook “take me to bed,” as the headline would read if you opened a book cataloging men and the thoughts they induce on sight.
He’d be the first photo featured.
His skin is forever tan, body trim yet toned, though looking at him in his hoodie, his shoulders seem to span wider than before. His dark-brown hair is still short on the sides, a pile of lazy waves on top.
Just how I like it.
Crew leans back, crossing his arms. “Been checking up on me, huh?”
“I’d say old habits die hard, but I’m not old, and I don’t see this one dying.”
His eyes hold mine. “Tell me why you asked me to come here, Sweets.”
Sweets.
Man, I haven’t heard that one in a long time. Little does he know not much has changed. I still have a solid stash of snacks—all of the sugary nature—in my bag as we speak. That’s what he called me before, “Baby Franco,” and after, on the rarest occasions, of course. Like when he was drunk and goofy.
Like when he—
The lift of his dark brow snaps me out of my thoughts, and I remember why I called him here.
Not that I forgot. I obsessed over it. Stressed over it.
Ate three pounds of chocolate and got sick over it…
Each time I tried to talk myself out of calling him, it worked. I mean, it had been a long time since we talked.
So, I texted him instead.
“Right, so…” I sit up in my chair, folding my hands and laying them on the table, holding his eyes with mine. I square my shoulders, give a curt nod, and grin.
“I want you to take my virginity.”
Chapter Two
Davis
Okay, so I anticipated some shock, a chuckle or two, and definitely expected to see the look-away grin thing he does—where he really wants to smile at what I say but doesn’t want me to know he’s smiling.
What I did not expect was his face to remain so incredibly blank. Like, blank blank.
I’m talking if a wax figure of Crew Taylor existed, I’d swear someone froze time, kidnapped the real Crew, and placed the art version of him in front of me. He’s that still. That freaking stuck.