Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Rather than admit I haven’t heard a word she said, I simply stare on.
“Come on, Collins,” she whines, clearly undeterred by the indifference in my expression. “We can totally go listen to live music and not drink or smoke. It’s possible!”
“Possible. Yes? Probable?” Another sarcastic stare slides onto my face. “No.”
“You’re like those Sour Patch candies. You’re so fucking sour, but I know if I suck on you long enough something sweet will come out.”
There’s no stopping my jaw from dropping open.
Kara victoriously laughs, gives her recently neon green tipped hair a ruffle, and rises to her feet. “Totally worth it just for that face.”
The glare she’s given doesn’t seem to register to her.
“We still on for waffles this weekend?”
“Tuesday.”
Aside from being her fucking taxi driver when she makes stupid mistakes, we’ve really only hung out once. She was near the shop area around closing – wouldn’t say why – so we met at the burger truck to eat and bullshit. Normally, it would’ve been my weekly meal with the fam, but Noah went to visit Dad instead, hoping I would agree to go along.
I didn’t.
I also don’t fucking plan to.
Her pout is poorly hidden. “What happened to this weekend?”
“Gotta pick up extra hours on Saturday.”
Because paying rent, bills, and groceries wasn’t draining enough without adding a girlfriend into the mix.
“Ugh, fine,” Kara sighs while slowly backing away. “But don’t fucking flake on me, Collins. We have so much shit to discuss.”
“How many times are we gonna play Kill, Bang, Divorce?”
“Until enough of our answers match.” She playfully sticks her tongue out at me, spins on her heels, and struts away.
She’s not worth watching walk.
Pres is.
And fuck me, when she enters or exits a room, my eyes can’t go anywhere else.
Law’s appearance right on the heels of her disappearance isn’t shocking.
She fucking hates sponsors. Says it’s like having a babysitter or an extra parent, claiming that since she hates the ones she already has, why would she want to add to them? While she doesn’t directly tell me to ditch the one I have, she throws enough fucking shade that I get the message. She blames him for my refusal to get caught up in her fucking bullshit like rich prick parties and techno Tuesday at her favorite underground club when in reality he’s the one encouraging us to be friends.
He’s pushing for me to do more than flip through car mags, workout, and pretend that I’m not slowly becoming obsessed with cooking after binging Kitchen Nightmares and starting Masterchef.
McCoy and Jovi don’t complain.
Pretty sure they really like when I decide to play Gordon Ramsay because it means they only thing they have to do is eat free food.
Law wraps both hands around the back of the chair beside mine as his attention drops to me “What’d you think of Donnie’s story, Collins?”
How does he do this shit?
How does he just know something is on my mind?
“That I don’t wanna end up like him,” I fold my arms across my white t-shirt, “but can’t help this fear that that’s exactly what will happen if I slip up even once.”
“Good,” my sponsor callously states. “Use that fucking fear to your benefit, Collins. Put it in your arsenal. Let it help when you need it to fucking help. Never forget that nothing in this war is black and white. Every day, every step, every moment is a choice. Some days those choices are simple. Obvious. Don’t do this. Don’t go there. Other times you’re fucking blindsided. Thrown on two wheels when your ass was cruising controlling on all four. Nut punched with so much pain that the only outlet to numb it seems to be the one that’s been patiently lurking, waiting for you to want to rely on it again. You don’t wanna reach the point Donnie did? You don’t want your wife walking out of your life and being banned by the courts from seeing your kids? Then fucking keep working at it. All the time. And anytime you feel like completely fucking giving up? That’s when it’s going to matter the most that you keep fighting and that you reach into armory for the big guns.”
His words – like always – root themselves deep in my consciousness.
Kara may hate that some sponsors are like parental figures; however, I love it.
I need it.
I hate that I fucking do, but it is what it is.
“You haven’t called or texted this week. Everything good?”
“You could say that.”
“Work?”
“Steady.”
“Family?”
“Same.”
“Have you brought Presley to a dinner yet?”
The slow headshake he’s given receives a hum.
“Next assignment.”
“That shit’s not totally in my control though.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
My forehead immediately furrows.
“Your next assignment is to have her go with you to one. This may require some prep-work that will encourage you to work on your communication skills.”
An irritated grunt is given at the same time I chomp down on the toothpick.