Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“For the record, I don’t believe you. But I’ll let it go. For now.” She tacks the last part on, narrowing her eyes and pointing her finger at me in an attempt to look threatening. It’s hilarious, really, considering she’s about as intimidating as a pet bunny. “And you can make it up to me by coming to my party next week,” she says, blue eyes big and hopeful.
I groan. I hate parties. I’m already mentally preparing myself for our work Halloween party. All the surrounding shops have one big costume party at Blackbear. If I was the only owner who didn’t participate, I’d look like an even bigger asshole, and I’d never hear the end of it. I’d rather choke on a bullet than go to two parties in the same month.
“Come on, you know I wouldn’t ask you unless it was important to me,” she whines, and I shoot her a look. She invites me to every goddamn thing she attends.
“Okay, so I would invite you, but you know I wouldn’t push.”
“Briar passed her midterms,” Kelley says, coming up behind her, squeezing her hip and looking at her with his eyes full of pride, and she beams up at him. It’s still weird to see this side of him, but that’s the Briar Effect.
“Four people were dropped this semester alone. And passing is a big deal. I just really want the people I love to be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say reluctantly, but I mean it.
“I love you, too,” Briar says before smacking a kiss onto my cheek. Ash walks over, scoops her up, and her legs wrap around his waist.
“Now get out of my house.” I’ve spent enough time with these two to know what comes next.
“He’s just mad because he hasn’t been laid in weeks,” Asher mumbles into Briar’s neck as he carries her toward the door.
“Leave him alone.” She giggles as he reaches back to close the door behind him.
He isn’t wrong. I haven’t fucked anyone lately, and it’s making me a moody son of a bitch. It isn’t because there’s a shortage of willing females, either. I just haven’t found someone worth the trouble.
My thoughts immediately turn to Logan. Her bare milky thighs. Her full lips. Her porcelain skin. I could probably fuck her. I want to fuck her. But I won’t, because girls like her—the beautiful ones with daddy issues—are pure chaos. And chaos is my kryptonite.
I push away thoughts of Logan and decide to shower. Afterwards, I’m too tired to sleep, as if that makes any fucking sense, so I sketch out some tattoo ideas. Drawing always relaxes me. It started as a coping mechanism when the guilt and intrusive thoughts became too much to bear. After turning to drugs and alcohol to numb the pain, I turned to creating art. Art is a generous way to put it. It was far from it when I first started, but now, it’s my lifeline.
I tried other career choices. Even started my own roofing business. I saved enough money to start Bad Intentions, then had Asher take over the roofing company when he moved back. I still technically own it and take jobs on the side every now and then, but creating keeps me grounded and sane in a way that even roofing can’t. It worked at first, because I was fucking angry, and it was a good outlet—throwing myself into physical labor, hammering away at shingles all day, getting my aggression out—but I’m not angry anymore. I’m resigned. I know what I did, and I’ll pay for it every single day for the rest of my life.
I sketch at the high-top counter in my kitchen for maybe thirty minutes before giving up on the three staggered pine trees in front of me. The same ones I have on my forearm, and the same ones I find myself drawing over and over again. I throw my pencil down at the drawing like it offended me. And it has. This was supposed to help me feel calmer, to clear the fucked-up thoughts in my head. To quiet the guilt. But not even the pine trees can help me tonight. I can’t pinpoint why I’m feeling so off, but I can’t shake my weird mood, so I stand from my barstool and punch the light switch with my fist before heading upstairs to bed.
I don’t even make it to the top of the stairs before I hear a knock at the door. Which idiot is it now? My bet is on Cordell. Cam is too busy being a dad and Asher was just here, so that leaves one person. Except when I swing open the door, it’s not Cordell’s face I see.
“Hey, roomie,” Adrian says with a big stupid smile on his face that has women dropping their panties for him despite the fact that he’s a goofy bastard. I take one look at the backpack on his shoulder and the suitcase in his hand before slamming the door in his face. He throws out a palm to stop it from closing.