Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Don’t say it.” I’d literally cover his mouth if he weren’t driving right now.
“Pure.”
I flip him off, and in the next brief glance, he studies the corners of my eyes, the skin beneath bleeding black-and-blue. I’ve checked in a mirror. I’ll need to conceal the bruises with makeup before the meet-and-greet.
I watch his palm and fingers rub his knee before he clutches the wheel again. Talking about sex just sends me down a rabbit hole. An abnormal, really strange abyss that no one would expect, but he can tell I’m drifting somewhere. Mentally.
“What are you really thinking about?” he asks.
I try to lean back. “My mom.”
Weight sinks in the air at those two words, but he waits for me to continue.
I inhale a strong breath. “I was just thinking about how difficult a trip like this would’ve been for her—if she were here at my age, still battling her sex addiction.” I lick my lips. “I don’t know. It’s the small stuff. Like, would she have wanted to stop the bus and screw my dad? Would she be fidgeting or upset? Or would they’ve just fucked on the couch? Then I start thinking about how fucking weird it is to be casually thinking about my parent’s sex life.”
He opens the cap to a Lightning Bolt! energy drink. “It’s your normal,” he tells me. “It doesn’t have to be everyone else’s.” He sips the drink, then offers me the slender can.
I take a swig and pass it back, remembering how non-judgmental and open-minded Farrow is—and yeah, I like it. I can’t have someone in my private life belittling me for not being perfect. I get that too much online.
Farrow merges onto another freeway. “What would you’ve done if you weren’t rich and famous?” he asks me. “For a career?”
That alternate universe. “You don’t know?”
“Why would I?”
“It’s public knowledge. Every time press interviews me, they ask that question.” It reminds me of something Beckett said in the bathroom. Something that I’ve tried not to let creep into my brain like a parasitic insecurity.
Beckett told me, “For every 200 facts Farrow knows about you, you only know 2 facts about him. So what do you really even know about Farrow? I’m not trying to be a dick. Just be careful. You’re not the kind of person who lets anyone in, and he’s slipped past all your guards, hasn’t he?”
He has, and maybe I haven’t grilled Farrow enough or fucking quizzed him as much as Beckett would. But I hate being indecisive or even doubtful about my own actions. I like to move and speak with assuredness, and even this morsel of uncertainty makes me cringe.
Farrow is quiet trying to find a memory. “Didn’t you joke around in those interviews?” He switches lanes. “Unless you were serious when you said you wanted to be an intergalactic bounty hunter.”
“I was serious, and I was four,” I say.
He pops his gum, about to laugh. “When I asked, I was asking the twenty-two-year-old in the passenger seat. Not the four-year-old.”
“Right.” I lick my lips, restraining a smile. “Truthfully, I try not to think about that alternate universe, but sometimes...I know where I’d be.”
Farrow holds my gaze for a longer moment, understanding in his brown eyes. “The military,” he says with a nod, beating me to the answer.
“Yeah, the military,” I say. He knows me. Really well. I rake a hand through my hair, my gray paracord bracelet still tied around my wrist. I don’t take it off that often. “So your past relationships…”
He checks the directions on his phone’s GPS. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”
So he knew Beckett’s words would seep into my brain somehow. Some fucking way.
Farrow sets his phone down. “Whatever you want to know, I’ll answer.” He’s always said as much.
I instinctively shake my head. “It’s not that big of a deal. A huge, colossal part of me hasn’t wanted details about your exes, which is why I haven’t pried before.”
Picturing him with other guys when I have strong feelings for him—I start scowling, then wincing. Almost like I’ve sprayed Pam or Lysol in my eyes. No, actually, I’d rather spray my eyes with household products than hear in grave-fucking-detail how Farrow fell in love with another man.
My brows furrow with another thought. “I don’t know what people typically do in serious relationships.” My shoulders tighten. “I don’t know…should I ask you and pry? Is that the right thing?”
His smile breaks through. “Wolf scout, just do what you feel. There’s no right or wrong here. And there aren’t any ‘best boyfriend’ merit badges on the line or even ‘worst boyfriend’—I promise, you’re safe either way.”
My carriage rises in a deeper breath, confidence surging back. I rotate some, just to face him. “I don’t need to know any of your exes’ names or anything like that. But I’m just curious…did you break it off or did they?”