Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
“At work,” I replied, crossing my hands over my chest. I was more than aware I was only wearing an oversized tee, no bra. Granted, the tee almost reached my knees and provided more coverage than even my most conservative outfit, but I had no makeup on, my face was pale and splotchy, the circles under my eyes almost black, and my freckles made me look like a twelve-year-old with mono.
Asher obviously observed this. “You okay?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.
That hit me. Hard. Because it was genuine. I knew I wasn’t Asher’s favorite person, and for good reason, but there he was, coming to my rescue and being actually worried about me. It was all because of my connection to the woman who he was infatuated with, but still.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Lucky seemed to shake out of his cocky delusion and saw what Asher saw. His grip was heavy on my shoulders, almost to the point of pain, as he turned me roughly so I faced him.
He took me in and his form hardened. “What the fuck?” he bit out.
“You want to let me go?” I hissed. “I like my shoulders not crushed by The Incredible Hulk wearing leather.”
“You want to tell me what’s wrong with you?” he clipped, not letting me go.
I struggled under his grip and the weight of his stare. It unnerved me, his change. Not an ounce of his previous humor lurked behind his stare.
Asher stepped forward. “Brother, you might want to let her go,” he said, his hand going to Lucky’s shoulder. Lucky glanced down at Asher’s arm, then at his own inked hands, as if he was surprised to see them clutching my shoulders. He immediately let me go.
I rubbed my shoulder distractedly.
“Fuck,” he muttered, stepping forward. Asher hovered close, as if he anticipated having to step in.
I wasn’t afraid. I knew he wouldn’t put a hand on a woman in anger. Men who did, they had something about them. Something people like me sensed straight away. I’d known it about Dylan the second I met him, but because I was majorly fucked-up, I took up with him anyway.
“Did I hurt you, Becky?” he asked, concerned.
I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I lied. I actually welcomed the pain. It was a nice distraction from the relentless itch I was fighting, even now.
He glowered at me. “You need to stop it with the fuckin’ ‘fine.’ You’re not. Jesus, look at you. Are you sick?”
I smiled, despite myself. “Yeah, I’m sick,” I agreed.
He touched my elbow, directing me to the sofa. “Well sit the fuck down before you fall down. I’ll fix you some chicken soup,” he said, pushing me gently onto the sofa before straightening.
“We don’t have chicken soup,” I informed him.
Rosie handed him a beer and a Pop-Tart, doing the same to a hard-faced Asher. “And you don’t know how to make chicken soup,” she added with a grin.
He frowned at her, taking a pull of his beer. “Then I’ll order some.” He looked back to me. “Have you been to the doctor?”
Yeah, I’ve been to the hospital where multiple doctors told me I’d been a hair’s breadth away from death and recommended I go to some rehab facility. “I don’t need a doctor. I need rest and relaxation, which means you need to leave.”
His eyes narrowed. “You realize what just happened before?” he clipped. “What they wanted? What they were willin’ to do to get it?”
I swallowed, not from fear, as I wasn’t afraid of those idiots, but something else. “Yeah, and I know how to handle myself.”
Luckily, or maybe not so, our little argument was cut short by a scream. Lily’s scream.
My blood went cold and the men went into badass mode. If this were a cartoon, there would’ve been an Asher-shaped cloud where his body had been before he darted out of the door. Lucky was hot on his heels.
I pushed off the sofa, intent on following them. Rosie’s hand on my wrist stopped me.
“Let me go,” I hissed.
“You need to let the guys take care of it, as unfeminist as that sounds,” she said softly.
I turned to her. “That’s my best friend.”
“I know. But you don’t have any pants on, you’re wearing grandpa socks, and you can barely stand up,” she pointed out softly.
My body swayed as if to bring her point home.
Her grip became firmer, keeping me steady. “They got her,” she murmured.
“This is because of me,” I whispered.
Rosie’s face went hard. “No, this is because of the people who are doing this. Self-blame is not good for the complexion, and I won’t let you go all martyr and take everyone else’s sins on your shoulders.”
I kept my eyes on the door, praying for an unharmed Lily to come through it.
Like usual, my prayers weren’t answered.
When I saw Lily, she was pale and gasping for breath, a familiar scene from living with her.