Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“When was the last time you told me you love me?”
His brow wrinkles in deep thought. He takes time searching his mind. “That was…”
“I can’t remember, either.”
Whatever arguments he had lined up stop, his demeanor one of a person who’s accepted his fate…our fate. “So this is it, huh?”
“You know I care about you. I could not have gotten nearly as far in my career without you. I’ll always be grateful.”
“I don’t want you to be grateful, for fuck’s sake. I want you to be with me.” He runs a restless hand through his hair while he walks away, then turns around abruptly and walks back to me. “Love fades. We have common interests. That’s so much more dependable. Love isn’t worth giving this up.”
One of the first things I noticed about Oliver when we met was that hard direct stare of his. It makes you believe he can accomplish anything he sets his mind to and most of the time that’s true. Not this time though.
“I wish I could agree with you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Maren
The loud screech of tires rips my attention away from the replay of my US Open match on I’m forcing myself to watch on my iPad. This is how I self-harm. Everyone’s got their thing. This is mine. Typically I like to pair it with a bag of Double Stuf Oreos to catch my tears as they fall. Not tonight, though. Not after what happened at the club a few days ago.
Watching Oliver get in the rental car and drive away for the last time was hard. Nope. Tonight, no amount of Oreos can lubricate that mindfu––
Honk. Honk. Hoooonk.
A car door slams. The commotion forces me out of bed and carries me to the window. I draw aside the curtain and what I see has my eyes bugging out of my head. Then I realize I’m standing in front of the window in underwear and a tank top and yank the curtain over my unmentionables.
A pickup truck, one of those with the monster tires, is parked askew on Noah’s lawn. And I use that term parked loosely. More like destroyed his front lawn and almost ended up in his living room.
“Janaaaaa!”
A man gets out of the driver’s side. The screamer paces back and forth while repeatedly running both hands through his sandy-blond hair and gripping the roots. And, well, he’s got no pants on. To be clear, he’s got on a wife beater and nothing else. His dick is swinging in the wind. Oh wait, except for boots. Bless his heart, he had the wherewithal to put on boots.
“Jaaanaaaa!”
All the lights in Noah’s house turn on and I scramble to throw on shorts and a t-shirt. Grabbing my phone, I run downstairs because I’ll be damned if I miss a second of this.
“Janaaaaaa!” I hear again, a few choked sobs follow this time.
I dial 911. “I’d like to report a disturbance…” I give them a quick rundown of the events and my address. As soon as I hang up, I go to the closet to retrieve my grandfather’s trusted companion appropriately named Spike.
Practically medieval, the wooden bat with spikes drilled into it is a treasured family heirloom. On more than one occasion it came in handy at the bar to break up fights or discourage would-be robbers. Of all the things I inherited from Rowdy, this is the only thing I truly wanted.
As soon as I wrap my fingers on the smooth handle I am awash in memories, my favorite from the summer I turned thirteen. Annabelle and I were staying with my grandfather while my parents were away. It was your typical weekend night, with teenagers looking for a place to party.
Out of the front window of his house, she and I watched one car after another drive up. Soon there were cars parked up and down the dead-end street. The music loud, the teenagers louder. My grandfather let it go on for a while. But when they started a fire, he officially, “Had enough of this shit.”
Annabelle and I watched from the porch as Rowdy walked right up to a bunch of the boys standing around the fire and said, “Have you boys seen Spike?”
One of the more courageous ones, or rather stupid ones, asked, “Who that, a dog?”
“He’s definitely a trusted companion,” was Rowdy’s humor-laced reply. After which he produced good ol’ Spike from behind his back and everyone scattered, jumping into cars and tearing away like their backsides were at stake. And quite frankly, they were.
Annabelle and I giggled for hours because one of those loud teenagers was Noah who at sixteen was busy putting the moves on Crystal Roy. Suffice it to say, Spike is dear to me.
“Janaaaaaa!” More porch lights come on up and down the street.
Noah steps out the front door dressed only in jeans, a t-shirt hanging from his hand. He squares his shoulders and approaches Swinging Dick slowly, quickly donning the t-shirt.