Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
I trash homemade chocolate chip cookies. “Just how Ben hasn’t been able to drive since the crash.”
Donnelly adds, “Jane said his foot keeps shaking on the pedal.”
Oscar mutters a curse. “I have fifteen years of driving experience on Ben, and I was having issues keeping the Range Rover on all four wheels that night.”
Quinn hurls an empty box at the fireplace. “Paparazzi should’ve backed the fuck off.”
“They won’t,” Akara says, flipping through a handcrafted Sullivan Meadows scrapbook. “The best the parents can do is keep filing lawsuits.”
But none have stuck yet. The Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts have also requested that the bodyguards drive for the younger kids until further notice.
Donnelly rattles his open mailer upside-down, and a lacy thong falls to the floor.
We all see it.
“Smell it, Donnelly,” I say with a rising smile. “Could be the mystery scent.”
He pinches the pink thong between gloved fingers and sniffs.
Quinn gags into his fist.
“Nah,” Donnelly says, “just smells like pussy.” He flings the panties into the trash and reads the card aloud. “Beckett Joyce Cobalt, I came in these thinking of you.” He smirks. “My guy has so many admirers.”
Silently, Thatcher dumps a ball gag and dildo in the trash. All mailed to Jane.
Oscar swigs a Ziff sports drink and reads, “Dear Charlie, I want to have your babies. She left her phone number.”
“Can’t blame her.” Donnelly reaches for a new package. “Who wouldn’t want to have some Cobalt babies?”
Thatcher casts a reprimanding look but stays quiet.
I spin a knife between my fingers and then point to myself with the blade. “Me.”
Donnelly grins. “That’s just because you’re all up in that Hale dick.”
I laugh into a smile, about to dish it back—and then the unknown stench unleashes itself tenfold. We all recoil.
“It’s this,” Quinn chokes and coughs into his bicep. He just flipped the flaps to a cardboard box, the contents not visible. Everyone is asking what was sent to Luna.
I’m about to stand off the barstool and see for myself. But Quinn starts taping up the package. Then he rises to his feet and places the box in Luna’s wicker basket—
“Whoa!” all of us basically shout some sort of expletive.
Quinn ignores us. Leaving the package in her good mail.
Thatcher glares at me, as though I caused the youngest bodyguard’s “bad” behavior from my short “mentoring” days. I’m not taking the blame for this shit.
I glare back at Thatcher.
I quit.
Slinging those two words out in anger is not what I had in mind today. I bite my tongue hard.
“It’s not trash,” Quinn says, still choked from the smell. He coughs into his fist.
Akara digs in the wicker basket and inspects the taped package.
“What the fuck is it?” Oscar asks.
Quinn takes a seat around his mail piles. “Really shitty perfume that spilt.”
My brows spike. “Sounds like trash to me.”
Thatcher crosses his arms. “Farrow, you should’ve instructed Quinn better. Told him that liquids need to be thrown out.”
I did.
His assumption that I didn’t grates on me. I grit down to keep from spewing out, I’m quitting, you fucking tool. Instead I say simply, “I’ll keep that in mind.” While I stand, I rest my shoulders up against the brick wall.
Thatcher uncrosses his arms. He looks surprised that I’m admitting fault.
Akara carries the perfume package to the trash bag.
“Wait!” Quinn springs to his feet and extends an arm, an angered scowl crossing his face. “Just wait a fucking second. I know what I’m doing.”
Akara raises his shoulders. “Quinn, we don’t allow liquids—”
“Luna asked me not to,” Quinn retorts. “I get that I haven’t been a bodyguard as long as any of you, but I’ve been here long enough. And I fucking know if a client asks you to do something, you do it. Sometimes, even if it’s illegal—”
“No,” Thatcher says sternly. “Not if it’s illegal. You can say no.” His glare drills into me again.
I’m starting to believe Quinn Oliveira wants Thatcher to murder me.
I still lean casually on the wall. And to Thatcher, I say, “I never told Quinn that he couldn’t say no.” That implication is not even close to who I am.
“Wait a sec,” Akara interjects, box in hand. “Quinn, did Luna specifically ask you not to discard liquids?”
Quinn scratches his unshaven jaw. “No…I was trying to keep this private, but if you all have to know…” He motions to the box. “Luna asked me not to throw anything away that’s from her boyfriend.”
Boyfriend?
Voices collide together, everyone asking the same shit.
I peel off my gloves and then comb my hair back. If anyone had known about Luna Hale suddenly having a boyfriend, it would’ve been her older brother.
And Maximoff knows nothing.
I question whether this “boyfriend” is real. “Have you seen him?” I ask on top of the mounting questions.
“When?” Donnelly asks.
“For how long?” Akara wonders.
Quinn runs two frustrated hands through his thick, wavy hair. “MyGod,” he snaps. “Shut the fuck up and I’ll tell you!”