Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
I growl out, “Come on—”
“Grow a fucking funny bone, bitch!” He’s still yelling at Jesse, even as I drag him back.
“Grow a fucking brain, ass-clown!” Jesse shouts hotly, trying to charge forward. Jack puts a hand on his chest and restrains him.
“Cool off, breathe,” Jack coaches. “Hey—Jesse.” He forces him from rushing at the douchebro, and I’m doing the same to the other teenager.
“I need everyone to exit the tent!” I shout at the gawking teenagers. “Now!”
“He started it!” a few yell and point at Jesse.
“Exit the tent,” I say with threat and force. “Now. I’m not fucking around.” Intimidation on point, the teens take the hint and shuffle out, leaving a broken plastic table and litter in their wake.
While Jack talks to his brother under his breath, I interrogate the other teenager.
“What’s your name?” I ask the douchebro and release my tight grip on him.
“Tyson.”
“Last name too.”
He rolls his eyes and then glares at Jesse. “This is all his fault!”
Look, I don’t know Jack’s little bro that well, but Jesse seems like he has a good heart. And Jack calls him a free spirit. Not a devil or a dickhead.
“Lay off him,” I growl at the teenager. “What’s your last name? I’m not playing around, bro.”
Charges won’t be pressed for a schoolyard shove-fest. I just need to log this down for security, and you bet your ass that I’m remembering his full name so he never invades Jesse’s space again.
“Why aren’t you giving him the third-degree?” Tyson gapes. “I’m telling you, he started it! This isn’t fucking fair!”
Jesse huffs and shakes off his older brother’s hold, just to pick up his camera that fell on the grass. He says nothing.
Jack reaches out a consoling hand. “Jesse—”
“I have more B-roll to grab.” He hoists his backpack on his shoulder. “Sorry, Kuya.” Apologies flash in his eyes to his brother before he exits. Not saying what happened.
Jack is about to run after Jesse, but when he reaches the flaps of the tent, an imposing man blocks him.
Aw, shit.
Bad timing has crept upon us again.
The Epsilon lead is here, hands on his radio and hip. A surly soldier, Korean-American, mid-forties and one of the longest-lasting bodyguards—I’ve known Jon Sinclair since I first joined security years ago, and his beef with me has annoyingly endured.
“What in the goddamn fuck is going on?” His glare nails onto me, then the douchebro.
“Tyson was just telling me his last name.” My deep voice is all severity. “He was in a fight with another teenager. It’s done and diffused.” I leave out Jesse.
I’m playing favorites.
Is it fair? Yeah, no. Life isn’t fair, and I have intense feelings for the pretty boy with the camera. And if his little brother is in a pickle, I’m going to help get him out.
Without the details of the fight, I might not be on the right side of morality, but I don’t always need to be.
“It was that kid named Jesse,” Tyson complains. “Not me.”
Sinclair spins onto Jack. “Your brother Jesse?”
Jack tucks his camera under his arm. “It was a misunderstanding—”
“Did I mishear the part where production is starting fights at a charity event?” Sinclair cuts him off.
The Epsilon lead cutting off one of his bodyguards, fine. Him cutting off Jack Highland, not fine. Not at all.
“It’s diffused, Sinclair,” I rebut and tell him lowly, “we should leave this area before more runners pass the finish line and need water.”
He’s stewing more than the douchebro.
But Tyson blurts out, “I was joking. That guy Jesse can’t take a joke.”
“What happened?” Sinclair questions.
“I was fake-humping the table, and Jesse got bent-out-of-shape over it because another person—not me—said that’s how I should ride Winona Meadows.”
My jaw hardens, eyes narrow, head cocks because I’m used to these aggravating comments. No one likes this kind of peanut gallery, but they can’t shut up when it comes to the famous ones.
Jack looks exasperated, also too used to hecklers. “Your friends can’t talk like that here, man, and they shouldn’t talk like that anywhere—”
“Let security deal with security issues,” Sinclair cuts in before reiterating the same shit to the teenager. “That’s no way to talk to any woman or any person.”
Tyson scratches a pink bumpy patch on his fair skin, and what do you know—I think I gave the douchebro poison ivy.
I’d laugh about it, but I’m busy watching Jack back away from the situation. I only want to follow close before he disappears on me. And also, I left my vanishing client alone.
It’ll be a miracle if Charlie is still waiting for me.
Sinclair surveys the mess of water and cups on the grass. “Clean this up,” he orders the temp guard. “More runners are about to come in.”
Jack exits the tent, but not before casting a glance back. Our eyes catch in a beat that says, we’re on the same side.