Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I wipe them away, take a deep breath. “You’re going to get in trouble. You’re going to end up in prison and this time I will be too broke to help. Tell Ivan I’ll try to get more.”
I stand, throw a twenty on the bar for Gary because I know Tommy’s low on cash, and walk out.
I take the ferry back to Manhattan later that same day. After seeing Tommy, I can’t stay in Staten Island. I need to get as far away from my problems as possible. To pretend that my oldest and dearest friend isn’t on a path of total self-destruction, that my mother isn’t going to make me worry about her for the rest of my natural life. Sometimes I feel a thousand years old. I dream about buying a bus ticket to anywhere and never coming back like most people fantasize about movie stars. Never gonna happen but dreaming about it, the two minutes of relief it gives me, is worth it.
It’s nine p.m. by the time I walk through the front door. All the lights are off, the house completely silent. I slip off my Air Jordans and tiptoe down the hall. The baby should be fast asleep. Jordan is probably in bed already. He’s an “early to bed and early to rise” type unless he’s out for a business dinner.
I reach the side of the apartment where his bedroom suite and the guest bedroom I sleep in are located and hear a strange noise. I stop to listen, thinking maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, but no. There it is again. It’s a hitting sorta slapping sound followed by a grunt. The blood drains out of my head and my hands start to shake.
Holy shit, he must have a guest over and they’re having sex. Jordan is having sex with someone…in his own house.
This shouldn’t be a problem for me. And yet it is. I’m having a severe reaction to it in fact, feeling a sense of loss so great it’s like I’ve caught my lover cheating. Except we aren’t lovers and never will be. This is crazy. He doesn’t belong to me. Doesn’t matter––I am flooded with jealousy and pain.
My brain splits into two parts. The rational part that can see the absurdity in this. And the part that wants to bust down the door, grab the bitch by the hair, and drag her out.
The grunting and hitting stops. They must be done. It’s so quiet at this point that I can hear myself breathing heavy. I’m about to turn into my bedroom to scream into my pillow when his door suddenly flies open.
Jordan is shirtless. But he’s not just shirtless, he’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing silky black basketball shorts hanging low on his hips. They expose a set of ab muscles no ordinary civilian should ever possess. Muscles like that belong on action figures and professional MMA fighters and should be admired from afar. They don’t belong on my emotionally stunted boss who’s standing close enough for me to touch.
Sweat drips down his finely sculpted chest, in between his pecs lightly dusted with hair. No need to speculate about what’s hiding under that suit anymore.
Jordan has hair on his chest.
This explodes into my mind like a glitter bomb. Then I remember he just had sex with someone else and the party gets cancelled.
He takes the hand towel hanging around his neck and wipes his face, looking as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“Hey, you came back.”
But he says it like it’s a good thing. Like…hey, you came back. Exciting! Not like I just interrupted him having sex. Not like, hey, Imma bout to fuck the house down and you weren’t supposed to be here.
“Hey,” I respond, leaning a little to the right, looking over his shoulder to see where she’s at. I’m so out of sorts I can feel my heart beating in my throat. It’s so loud I’m surprised he doesn’t hear it.
An image of sweaty bodies suddenly floods my brain. “Yeah, I uh…I couldn’t…I, uh…”
“Riley?” He looks concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m…I’m fine. I just…you’re very sweaty.”
I didn’t mean to say that. That last part was not supposed to come out of my mouth. That was the silent part that I said out loud.
“I couldn’t sleep––”
Yeah, I bet he couldn’t.
“––so I hit the bag.”
Huh? He calls having sex “hitting the bag?” Who is this person I’ve been living with? I never pegged him for a misogynist. Rude awakening. What a drag. The disappointment I’m feeling right now is heavy.
“Wow. Okay. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Try not to hit the bag too hard. I could hear you out here.”
His face puckers like he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. “What is up with you tonight? You’re acting weird.”