Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
But Whip isn’t finished. “Or maybe come back and work with us.”
I’m on my feet again, walking to the porch screen. I rest my forehead against its fragile wall. “Not yet. But soon, man.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Whip sounds about as sincere as I do.
“I’ll be in touch,” I say. It may or may not be a lie. I haven’t picked up my guitar in nearly a year, and have no desire to try now.
“Right.”
The silence, when he hangs up, rings in my ears. I don’t know how to be myself anymore, don’t know how to be part of Kill John. How do we go on? Do we do it without Jax? With him? And all the time looking over our shoulders for fear he’ll try it again?
Part of it isn’t even about Jax. I’m tired. Uninspired. It makes me feel guilty as hell.
Though I’m on a porch, the walls press in on me, taking my air. I should go inside, do…something. My feet take me the opposite direction, off my porch and straight to Liberty.
She’s hunched over a row of herbs and doesn’t look up when I lean my wrists against the top of the fence, which is at chin level. I watch her work, not minding the silence. It’s amusing the way she ignores me, because she doesn’t do a good job of it. Her whole placid, I-don’t-give-a-fuck-that-you’re-here expression just tells me she very much gives a fuck. Only she doesn’t want to.
I grin at the thought. There’s something so normal about it all. “You know, I’ve had girls on their knees before me plenty of times. But they usually do it with a smile.”
She snorts. “I’d be more impressed if you were the one used to being on your knees. I like givers, not takers.”
Jesus. I can just imagine her, plush thighs spread wide, using that bossy tone to tell me what she likes best as I eat her out. I shift my hips, drawing them away from the fence. No need for her to see the growing bulge in my pants; I’m not entirely sure if I’m attracted to her or have suddenly become a masochist. “What about give and take? You down with that?”
Even as I joke, a twinge of guilt hits me. When was the last time I gave, anyway? Because she’s right; I got lazy, sat around like a king having girls suck me off while I thought up song lyrics or planned the next album. Reached a point where I did not give a ripe grape what those girls did or where they went once I got off.
Liberty glares up at me now. “What exactly are you doing here anyway? Don’t you work?”
God, I want to laugh at that. I bite my bottom lip. “Don’t you? Isn’t it, like, a Tuesday?”
“It’s Wednesday, and I work from home, thank you.”
“Doing what?”
“If I wanted you to know, I would have said.”
“Are you a deejay?”
“A deejay?” She gapes up at me. “Are you serious? Where would I even play? At the church?”
I actually flush. I don’t think I’ve flushed with embarrassment in my entire life. Glancing up at the sky to see if any pigs are flying around, I mutter, “You have all those records.”
“Ah.” She gives me a tight nod. “Those were my dad’s. He was a deejay in college.”
“It’s an impressive collection.”
“It is.”
“And the guitar?”
Her shoulders hunch. “Also my dad’s.”
Now I know how reporters feel when they interview me. I empathize. This girl has me beat on evasive maneuvers.
“You’re really not gonna tell me?” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. But her determination to shut me down amuses me.
“Guess not.” She pulls out a pair of scissors and snips off bunches of sage, thyme, and rosemary. My grandma used to have an herb garden. A small box set up in her kitchen window back in the Bronx. When I was a little kid, I’d beg her to let me cut what she needed, and she’d remind me not to bruise the leaves.
I shake off old memories before they choke me. “Fine. I’ll just leave it to my imagination.” I scratch my chin, now beard-free and smooth—damn thing itched too much to keep in this heat. “I’m gonna go with phone-sex worker.”
Libby tucks her herbs in her basket and leans back on her heels. “That’s just ridiculous. Do I sound like a phone-sex worker?”
“Actually? Yeah.” I clear my throat because I can practically hear her cream-and-ice voice doling out demands. “Yeah, you do.”
She scowls at that, her eyes finally meeting mine again. Whatever she sees in my expression has her frown deepening and her color rising. She quickly turns back to her gardening. “I’ve got work to do. You gonna stand there watching all day? Or maybe there’s a bottle you’ll be wanting to find your way to the bottom of.”