Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“You have to order at the bar,” I tell her.
“Merde.” Her head slumps on my shoulder. She’s exhausted from today’s putt-putt debacle.
“I’ll go for you.” Just as I’m about to stand, Quinn and Farrow motion for me to stay seated.
“I can go alone,” Quinn tells Farrow while I sit back down. “She’s my client.”
“Akara would want you to stay with her,” Farrow says.
Quinn considers this for half a second, and then we all look over at the six-foot bearded bartender who approaches. He stops and towers over the table. Nearer Janie than to me. He fingers his gnarled beard and appraises the length of her body.
Hovering on her chest.
I’m on edge. Anyone who appraises us like we’re cattle—I don’t trust. From experience, they’d rather hurt my family than make cute small talk.
Likewise, Quinn’s guard seems to rise tenfold. He angles his body towards Jane. Sitting straighter. More menacing. Like a boxer about to face off an opponent. If I didn’t know, it’d be hard to tell that he’s new to the team.
“Hi,” Jane starts, but the bartender cuts her off with, “You’re Jane Cobalt.”
“Yes.” Janie’s voice is stiffer than usual. “You wouldn’t happen to have coffee—”
“Your mom is hotter.”
I glower. “What the fuck did you just say?” I see blood red, and I’m already halfway out of my seat. Our bodyguards are right behind me. Where Farrow has an at ease demeanor, as if this is just another normal day, Quinn’s eyes widen and darken. Horrified.
Pissed.
He probably hasn’t gotten used to hearing the vitriol people sling at Janie.
I wish it was something you didn’t have to get used to.
The bartender doesn’t balk. “I said Rose Calloway is a hotter piece of ass than that chubby bitch.”
I charge forward, venom in the back of my throat, but chairs clatter, more than just me shooting up completely from their seats. I instinctively stand in front of Janie. In my peripheral, I notice her hand gripping her watermelon purse.
Where pepper spray and a pink switchblade lie.
I may’ve cut off Jane, but Farrow cuts off my path, his hand on my chest. He says something to me that I don’t hear. I stare past him, hawkeyed on the bartender who watches Jane’s reaction.
“Fuck you,” I sneer, trying to steal his attention away from Jane.
The bartender laughs at me and then says to her. “You can’t cry if it’s the truth.”
Jane isn’t crying. She sighs into an angry growl and tries to ignore him. “I ask for coffee, and instead receive an unsolicited opinion on my looks. Disastrously unequal and a complete nightmare—Moffy.” Fear spikes her voice, grabbing my wrist when I try to step towards the bartender.
Farrow and Quinn break our hands as they shift around us. The bartender opens his mouth to speak again, and I hear the beginnings of the word slut and Quinn growls, “Fuck off.”
Farrow raises a hand to him, and I hear him hiss, “Cool down. Just focus on getting her out of here.”
Quinn’s nose flares and he nods. Quickly, Quinn begins to lead my cousin safely out of the pub. I hear Jane protesting and shouting, “I leave no one behind!”
Farrow rests a strong hand on my shoulder. Trying to steer me towards the exit.
With one move, I tear out of his hold. I’m seething from the inside out. My skin is crawling. Our eyes meet for a heated second. Both of us are headstrong. And I’m not moving on his accord.
Farrow warns beneath his breath, “Don’t jump out in front of me.” He rotates, protectively shielding me from the bartender. Using his body as a barrier between me and that bastard.
Bodyguards are required to deescalate aggressive situations. Calm them. Stop them.
Not fuel or even win fights.
In case you aren’t already aware: I make that difficult.
I should leave right now. I should forget the bartender’s crude gaze. And malicious intent. I should. And Janie won’t leave until I do. Even if Quinn drags her out, she’ll dig her feet into hardwood or pavement and claw herself towards me.
I want her somewhere safe. Far away from here.
So I open my wallet and toss money on the table. Unable to leave without paying. Even if I’m paying a fucking douchebag.
“And you’re Maximoff Hale,” the bartender says. Don’t engage, my parents always tells me. Ignore the hecklers, they say. They’re trying to incite you, they remind me.
They want to fight you.
No shit.
I can handle overwhelmed, overzealous fans. I can handle competitive paparazzi. I can handle the tears and the autographs and the selfies. I can even handle tonight. The fucked-up part of fame.
The sick hatred. Chipping bit by bit at our humanity.
You want to know what the few other people in the pub are doing? They’re filming. With their cellphones. Like I’m the star of a fucked-up drama. And the title is This Is My Life.