Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
She’s really not a bad singer.
Definitely prefer when she sings the catchy shit because she wiggles her ass with it too.
Nolan playfully nudges my foot under the table and taunts, “I’mma start calling you Pup instead of Kid if you don’t stop lookin’ at her like that.”
I do my best to banish the blushes by giving the side of my neck a bashful rub.
“Then Imma start calling your ass Cujo instead of Mutt for what you did to his neck,” Bunny swiftly counters from the seat beside me.
“What’d he do to my neck?” Casually prodding the space is attached to another question. “Shit, did he give me a bruise?”
“With his mouth,” she sassily reminds, receiving a glare from his position across the table, “which is what we call a hickey.” The jovial teasing is redirected to me. “Can you say hickey?”
Flashing her a crooked grin precedes my own smug statement, “You’re talkin’ an awful lot of shit for someone who’s carrying my load between her legs.”
Bunny’s eyes instantly widen to the size of the tray our waitress is carrying our drinks on.
Nolan erupts in laughter while I merely look up at the now crimson cheeked redheaded woman delivering our beverages to offer gratitude. “Thanks.”
“Mmhm,” she hums back, attention buried downward to avoid meeting my gaze. “Do you um…Does everyone uh…Do you need a um…”
“Napkin,” my best friend casually interjects causing our woman to squeak in shock.
“Minute?” Opening the menu up, I politely inform, “That would be great. Thank you.”
Mumbled words are thrown in our direction before she hustles away to tend to another table.
Bunny’s huffing is loud and immediate, “I cannot believe you just said that in front of her!”
“I can.” Nolan reaches for his glass of water and presents me with a mischievous smirk. “I’d say I’m rubbin’ off on you.”
“That’s definitely what you did in my car,” I shoot back as I grab my draft beer.
Laughter leaves them both, yet it’s the man in my life that speaks again, “You’re a mouthy little fuck today. You must’ve been around Butler.”
“Is that the tiny one with the chin pubes?” Bunny inquires, frame leaning towards me, but hand extending across the space for Nolan to rest his on top of.
Conversations about acquaintances and other mechanics we deal with fairly regularly take up most of our time premeal as well as the meal itself. Our girl listens on, fully engaged in all the stories we share, contributing with her own in regard to who she met today along with whose name she recalls from our bookkeeping program, and fully immerses herself in the discussion clearly staking her claim in a world we shared before her but are eager to invite her into.
The fact she wants to remember who is who and when we see who leads to additional “puppy dog” stares from me and Nolan both.
I don’t think he can help the shit any more than I can.
We want her here with us.
Working with us.
Living life with us.
Simply existing with us.
How we managed to live without her presence is like a car running with low transmission fluid.
It can be done.
But it shouldn’t.
And the damage you sustain is not only costly, it’s often permanent.
Being full of fried food and beer has me wanting to stay put; however, seeing Bunny continuously wiggle her hips in her seat has me defeatedly sighing, “You wanna dance, don’t you, baby?”
“You two owe me at least one…”
“I don’t remember agreein’ to that,” Nolan playfully jabs back.
“You know what they say,” I warmly remind at the same time I stand up, “a well-tuned engine roars, a poorly kept one won’t floor.”
“People don’t say that, Kid,” my best friend good naturedly argues and rises to his feet too.
“Pretty sure gearheads do.”
“Nope.” Bunny excitedly stands up to take our offered hands. “Not even them.”
Our trek to the area where people are wiggling around is short. Almost immediately, our girl begins bouncing her shoulders to the rhythm of the Queen song the band is covering. It isn’t until they get to the chorus that I recognize the music and find myself singing along to “You’re My Best Friend”. Nolan and I both place a hand on Bunny’s lower back to sway our frames with her yet fold the very tips of our fingers together to be linked to another as well.
Like all the other shit that happens between us it feels natural.
Like it’s shit we’ve done forever.
Care or concern over what anyone else thinks about our situation doesn’t arise even once in my mind.
Maybe because I’m happy?
Maybe because we’re all truly happy and that’s all that matters?
That should ever matter?
“Crazy Little Thing Called Love” is played next and our woman – clearly no longer satisfied with our in-place swaying – breaks up the position by playfully pushing us apart. Her head sassily whips back and forth while her hips mimic the movements in her floral pink mini dress. Bends to the beat are accompanied by finger points to each of us eventually convincing me first to do something in return. Grabbing her hand to pull her close and dip her on the perfect note not only receives me instant smiles of praise, but it also spurs the man I know better than I know myself to enter competition mode. He grabs her hand the second she’s upright, tugs her to his chest, walks her a couple steps and spins her around. Bunny tips her head back on an open mouth laugh and follows his lead until I’m intervening right as the guitar solo begins.