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)
Donnelly adjusts his septum piercing. “A. edibles made him sick. We aren’t sure about smoking. I gotta jawn in my pocket.” His lilt is thick on jawn, a word which means just about anything in Philly, but Donnelly uses it mostly for blunt. “B. he’s Maximoff in Pain with a capital P.”
I chew Winterfresh, actually and truly considering Donnelly’s pitch to resolve Maximoff’s distress.
Oscar notices. “Boyfriend is in that much pain that you’re taking advice from Donnelly?” he asks with wide eyes, tearing open a bag of pretzels.
I pop a bubble in my mouth. “Let’s put it this way: I wouldn’t be surprised if he pukes in thirty minutes.”
It’s killing me to see Maximoff in this kind of agonizing pain, and I don’t know how to relieve it. Other than making him more comfortable and distracting him.
Neither of which can come close to easing fractured ribs, a surgical operation on his collarbone, and internal bruising. I didn’t sustain any injuries, and my body is extremely fucking sore and my muscles are shot.
I feel like I’ve been in a boxing ring fighting and grappling for thirty days in a row. Nonstop.
Oscar digs into the pretzels. “He does have a high pain tolerance though. Ever seen that episode of We Are Calloway where he breaks his ankle? Maximoff walked on it for what…five miles? Didn’t even break a sweat.”
I’ve seen that episode. “He’s breaking a sweat now,” I say easily, but that fact wedges like a pit in my ribs. My bagel pops, and I grab it from the toaster.
“We hotbox the attic,” Donnelly offers, tugging open the fridge.
I slowly chew my gum. “Man, that entails getting all the famous ones high.”
“Bonus,” Donnelly says and chucks the cream cheese container to me.
I catch. “Downside: Maximoff will go into big brother mode for the rest of the night if his little sister is high.”
“He’s probably already there,” Donnelly tells me. “I saw her drinking Four Lokos while you were upstairs.”
I roll my eyes. “I love that girl, but fuck.” I’m pissed because Maximoff shouldn’t have to worry about Luna tonight, and he will. Shit, I am right now. She buried her head in her shirt at the hospital, silently crying, and she’s kept to herself since the crash. Now this.
Oscar scratches his unshaven jaw. “Donnelly, you’re supposed to be making Redford feel better not worse.”
“I gave him cream cheese.”
I open the lid. “I’m having a night,” I tell them, being honest. “I’ll be fine later.” I’m just not in the mood for more bad shit. If something else goes wrong in the next twenty-four hours, I’m going to lose it.
Friends make long days feel good, but it’s the simple, little things that make the bad shit feel nonexistent. I just want to crawl into bed next to my boyfriend. Simple.
Easy.
“My guy doesn’t know you like I know you,” Donnelly says, bringing up Beckett, his client, who laid into me earlier. “Or else he wouldn’t have said the things he said.”
I spread cream cheese on my bagel. “I know.” I’ve already told Donnelly not to meddle and share details about me with Beckett. I’d rather earn that trust on my own.
At this rate, it may take years.
I spit my gum on a napkin and ask Oscar, “Charlie ever tell you why he wanted Beckett to do the auction?” I don’t ask Donnelly since he wouldn’t share Beckett’s secrets if he knew them.
Oscar hangs into the cabinet. “That requires having a relationship where Charlie actually tells me things.”
“So that’s a no,” I say, biting into my bagel. I turn my head as Akara fills the archway. A backwards baseball cap pushes back his black hair, and like Oscar, he’s in workout clothes: a muscle shirt and sweats.
“How you holding up?” Akara asks me.
I toss my head from side-to-side. “Better than my boyfriend.” I take another bite. “How about you?” The Omega lead has been attached to his phone for hours. Handling the crash and the aftermath which involves lawyers and police reports. We both haven’t slept since the accident.
“It’s been a day.” Akara watches Oscar take out a six-pack from the fridge. He doles out Coronas to everyone, but I pass.
Akara’s phone buzzes.
“Sulli?” Donnelly asks.
Akara checks Caller ID, then pockets his phone. “No, some guys have been calling me about franchising the gym.” He uncaps the beer bottle on the counter’s edge, acting like that offer means nothing.
Ever since SFO has gained some fame, Studio 9 Boxing & MMA gym has too. Especially since Akara owns it.
“You can be excited in front of me.” I lick cream cheese off my thumb.
Oscar pats Akara’s shoulder. “Congratulations, bro.”
Akara nods and swigs his beer. “I wish I could be excited, but franchising sounds like a headache. I’m already swimming in work.” He checks an incoming message on his phone. “And there it is.”