Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
All goes quiet.
And I swear my soul actually leaves my body before I collapse onto the couch and put my hands over my head.
I’m such an idiot.
Such. An. Idiot.
I yawn. Such. An. Idiot.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Killian
Wow, of all the texts I expected to get, it was not one from the blast from the past.
She was so pretty, so perfect.
I wrote a song about her then refused to record it just because it was too personal, and now, she’s sent me a crazy text of her turtle in what appears to be a homemade tuxedo, and a picture of her sister’s wedding invitation.
Guilt slams hard.
But she doesn’t even know why I said yes, why I felt compelled to say yes. It was all because of her. But saying that makes me look like the weak one, the one who walked away again, and the one who’s always had regrets, wishing he could walk back.
The words to the text are a drunken slur.
My Scar
Be my plus one or immush taking Chucksh, and he’s allergic to air!
I think it was meant to be a threat. I can’t imagine she would kill her turtle, but what I’m more fixated on is the fact that her lean hands are pointing at the turtle and she has a pretty gold ring on her pointer finger that rests by her knuckle. Why is that so fascinating? Like her gray nail polish or the fact that she still has a sewing machine and chooses to use it on her pet?
The phone starts to ring, and I nearly drop it. She’s calling now? She’s never called me. Damn, all the times I’ve wanted to call her or send a text only to stop myself.
My PR firm didn’t take kindly to our little stunt. I almost lost a record deal after “stealing” the bride. Thankfully, I turned it all around, but I was told to stay as far away from that nightmare as possible.
So I did.
I hated it. But I did.
But hey, one doesn’t say no to a wedding invite, right?
That’s the only way I can think of it without causing more drama now that my manager constantly checks my phone to make sure I’m still making the label money and living as the US version of Harry Styles.
No PDA. Easy.
No Drugs. Easier.
No Alcohol. Semi-hard.
No Sex. Also easy, because the only girl I can think of is currently dressing a fucking turtle and calling me on the phone.
“Scar?” I answer on the fourth ring.
“Hi, Leather Pants, it’s Adrian,” the male voice says. I nearly drop it like it’s on fire and burn my own apartment down.
“I’m confused,” I say. “Aren’t you the ex-boyfriend? The priest? What, you get so tempted you quit the cloth for a piece of ass?”
“Ah, there’s the rockstar, and you sounded so polite at first.” He sighs. “And for your information, I’m still a priest, we aren’t dating but I am in best friend territory, especially on sad, sad nights like tonight where I find a turtle’s been shamed.”
“Is Chuck okay? I hear he gets anxious. Did you try the ground beef?”
He’s quiet and then, “She told you about the ground beef.”
I laugh. “Oh Adrian, I know all about the ground beef.”
“It’s sacred.”
“It’s his favorite.”
“Just how much do you know Chuck?”
“Just how much do you know Chuck?”
“Why are we arguing over the turtle?”
“Same reason we’re arguing over a drunken Scar, we care. She okay?” I sit on the couch and press a sweaty hand against my dark jeans. “I mean, I know invites got sent out. She just asked me to go but—”
“Oh, I know, you’re busy, you’re always busy, blah, blah, how did you even know it was her anyway?”
I know I’m too quiet. “Lucky guess when I saw Chuck.”
“I can smell a lie from a mile away.”
“Because you’re a priest?”
His laugh is all sarcasm. “No, Leather Pants, it’s because you hesitated. Must be the same choking thing that happened before.”
Oh, shit, did she tell him?
I lean back on the couch and curse, pulling the phone away from my face. “Seriously, is she okay? Can I talk to her?”
“Scar—”
He curses then pops back on the phone. “She’s already face planted on the couch and will probably have so many regrets in the morning I’m going to have to stay the night.”
“You sure you’re a priest?”
“I keep it in my pants, unlike some people. Job kind of requires it, faith adds to it, things that I know confuse the hell out of you, but don’t worry I’ll say a prayer for you tonight. Think of it as a favor.”
Who the hell is this guy? Seriously? What sort of priest talks like this? “Whatever man, just make sure Chuck gets back into his tank, make sure she has her blanket—”
“I know which one.”
We’re both quiet, and it’s oddly not awkward. Finally, he sighs and says, “Don’t go. I’ll go instead. Just don’t.”