Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“Wow,” Rook said. “Easton, you sure know how to fuck yourself up. What is this? The fourth time this quarter?”
I raised my brow to Easton, who winced and looked at me guiltily.
“Did you allow me to move into a house that’ll backfire on me?” I teased.
I truly didn’t think that.
Honestly, I felt like Easton would more than keep me away from anyone if he thought they were trouble.
Easton’s eyes looked alarmed as he opened his mouth to instantly deny putting me in danger.
It was Rook who snapped at me. “Easton would never put you in danger.”
I rolled my eyes and held my hand up to ward off his anger. “Listen, Tide. I more than trust him, or I wouldn’t be here. How about you learn to read the sarcasm in a person’s voice?”
Rook looked annoyed for a second, and I looked over at Easton, who was watching me curiously.
He noted the distance that I had between Rook and me, and then said, “How about we go back downstairs to the kitchen and do this at the bar?”
The bar that I could easily put distance between Rook and me, making me more comfortable, while also still being in the same room.
“Sure,” I said.
That’s how we ended up downstairs, me giving beers per usual, and listening instead of talking.
Something in which both men noticed.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Rook said as he was stitching Easton’s wound closed.
I shrugged, not accepting the apology.
Honestly, I didn’t think it warranted one.
I hadn’t taken it personally, and surely he hadn’t thought I was that upset.
“This is going to be an ugly scar,” Easton said, breaking the ice between us.
“It’s going to be manly and all caveman-esque,” I teased. “Women dig scars.”
Rook grunted. “This’ll be a clean scar. Knife wounds always are.” He paused. “But the burn on the back of your shoulders? There’s no tellin’ what that’ll look like. Sometimes they heal just fine and look like regular skin again. But other times, they’re mottled and gross looking. You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Twenty minutes later, Rook was done with his work, and pronounced Easton ‘done.’
“Keep off the wound for four or five days. No strenuous activity, Easton. I’m not fuckin’ kidding. This one was deep. And it won’t heal good if you move around too much. Ever heard of shearing forces before? It ain’t fun.” He started to gather up all his shit, throwing it into his medical bag. “And be cognizant of those ribs. Same thing goes for them. You won’t really feel good for about two weeks, but after last time, I suspect you know that much.”
It wasn’t in me to wait to hear what he had to say.
I seriously needed to know what happened last time.
“Last time?” I drawled, unable to help myself.
“Last time I broke four ribs during an altercation, it nearly punctured my lungs,” Easton admitted.
“So just how often does this type of thing occur?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
Easton grinned lazily at me. “Enough.”
I had a feeling I didn’t really want to know what ‘enough’ meant.
“I won’t be here tomorrow to make sure he is doing what he’s told,” I admitted to the two men. “I’m making a long run down south. Do I need to call and cancel?”
Rook looked to me. “No. I think he’s more than capable of making sound, logical choices. Right, Easton?”
I looked at Easton expectantly.
“I…” Easton hesitated.
Rook burst out laughing, turned, and headed for the door.
He came to a sudden halt as he stared at the door in shock.
“Is that a skunk?” Rook asked from his frozen position.
“It doesn’t have its stinker.”
That came from Easton.
Who started to laugh.
I looked at the man, then looked at Easton.
“Did I say that Easton has a bit of a bad reaction to pain meds?” He chuckled. “Are you serious that it doesn’t have the ability to skunk me? I have to work tomorrow.”
“It doesn’t,” I promised, looking at Easton. “And what do you mean, a bad reaction?”
Before I could get my answer, Rook walked away laughing.
Turns out, I had my answer a few minutes later when I was serving us dinner.
I’d made it in the crockpot.
It was chicken noodle soup because it was cold as fuck outside—a cool thirty-eight degrees—and I loved cooking. Easton’s kitchen was made to cook in.
It was honestly a blasphemy when he said what he said as I put the soup in front of him.
“My mother used to make me soup,” he said as he stared at it and allowed the spoon to hover over the bowl. “She used to make me eat it all, no matter what. The moment that I had it put down in front of me. She gave me a total of five minutes to eat my entire meal, and have the dish put back away in the cabinet. Sometimes, I got burns in my mouth if the food was too hot. But I was always too scared of going to bed hungry, so I ignored it if it was too hot.”