Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 113617 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113617 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Jesus Christ.
“Are you serious?” Corey asked.
She turned to him, highball in her hand, the ice tinkling in the gimlet he’d made her from her drinks cabinet.
Genny could mix her own cocktails (and his).
Genny could do anything.
That said, when he was around, Tom insisted on doing it for her.
It was a thing. A good thing for them. A thing that irritated Corey no end.
It amused them both, some inside joke.
But it was more.
Corey could tell Genny thought it was gallant.
Because it was.
So now that Tom was gone, Corey had insisted.
However, earlier, when he’d handed her the glass, she tried, but she couldn’t hide the wince.
Couldn’t hide not only how little it meant Corey had made her a drink, but how badly it hurt that it wasn’t her husband doing it.
Therefore, in the end, all he’d managed to do was make a hollow gesture which turned into an unexpected blow.
You’re good at that.
“Sorry?” she asked back.
He repeated her words to her. “Before your friendship ends?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“What friendship?”
“He’s been my best friend since—”
Right.
No.
Corey could not listen to this shit.
Not again.
And especially not since he knew what came after her “since.”
He couldn’t bear it.
He couldn’t be reminded of it.
He hadn’t thought of it in years.
Liar. You think of it every day.
“I’ve been your best friend since you were eight,” he bit off.
She shut her mouth.
“The man stuck his dick in someone who is not you,” he kept at her.
She flinched, and the strength of that flinch wasn’t just emotional pain. It was real pain. Physical. Like Corey had stabbed her with a knife.
But he couldn’t stop himself.
“That is not a friend, Genny.”
He saw her spine straighten, and fuck, he hated this shit.
Over the years—and he knew it sounded insane, but he didn’t care—he’d learned that he would have vastly preferred her to be a weak woman.
That steel, it made her America’s sweetheart. That steel, it earned her a brief but glorious period where she was the highest paid female actor in Hollywood, and she’d fucking deserved that (and she didn’t deserve to lose it). That steel, it allowed her to put up with Chloe’s bullshit, Matt being a proud, arrogant fuck and Sasha teetering off the rails.
Not to mention Sam’s crap.
And Hale becoming…Christ.
His grown-ass son was a camp counselor, for fuck’s sake (though, Genny and Tom thought it was fantastic, something Corey did not understand).
That steel also kept her from falling into Corey’s arms the many times he’d opened them to her.
Corey could have practically any woman on the whole goddamned planet.
But not Imogen Swan.
And more importantly, not Genny.
“I don’t mean to sound cruel,” she said, her voice holding a hint of frost, “but you don’t know where I’m coming from with this, Corey.”
“I’ll repeat, I’ve known you since you were eight. You have always had me. I have never treated you like shit. I have never fucked you over. Not once. Not fucking once.”
Oh yes you have.
He ignored the voice in his head, the ability to do so being a gift he’d had his whole life.
A gift, of late, he was pretending was not slipping.
But it was.
He kept speaking.
“So I do know, Genny, sitting here, being the one who was always there for you, and listening to you telling me you’re going to remain friends with a man who fucked you over.”
“He’s the father of my children.”
“I haven’t spoken to Sam in well over a decade,” he retorted. “My assistants deal with her. And when that doesn’t work, my attorneys do it. And through most of that time, our kid wasn’t fully grown.”
Her eyes flashed with anger, not simply at him, but also for his son.
“That is not something to brag about, Corey.”
A million visions of Hale assaulted his brain.
Particularly ones of how his son looked at him.
And how he looked at Tom Pierce.
And how Hale reminded Corey of someone else.
God, fuck, God, fuck.
She was right.
With considerable mental effort, the kind it was only recently he’d had to expend, he pushed that aside.
He had to focus on what was important.
To him.
This was happening now, with Genny and Tom.
He couldn’t think about his son.
Thus, to center his attention on Gen, he stood.
“What I’m saying is, your best friend is standing right here. I’m always here. I’ve always been here. I’ll always be here. For you.”
“I love you very much,” she said softly, and it struck him softly, right in the gut. “But they held my heart.”
They?
Oh no.
No, no, no.
No!
“I hate it you never had this,” she kept talking, her voice sad, sweet, killing him.
Killing him.
“I always wanted it for you. Someone knowing…you,” she whispered. “You. All of you. What makes you. What thrills you. What you can’t stand. What you live for. What you’d die for. A glance in your direction, and they know your mood. Two seconds of listening, and they know if the start of a laugh will end in a fit of giggles, or just a wreath of smiles. The tone of voice on the first word sharing instantly you need to brace, because you’re about to have words. There are things I can’t tell you, things I can’t give you, Corey, no matter how you’ve always been there, how much I adore you. Things… Important things. Crucial things. Things that Tom had. That Bowie had.”