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)
I take out my wallet. “Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He’s buying me a drink. A bottled water since I don’t drink alcohol, but still, my boyfriend is buying me a drink. I thought I’d make that move first and buy him one.
I’m kind of shocked, and I wonder if the bodyguards can tell this is new for me or a first or the fact that it means something. Because it does. These little things mean more to me than I ever thought possible.
I never even dreamed about falling in love until I fell in love with him.
As I face the table, Quinn asks Akara, “Why can’t Farrow drink? I thought we’re off-duty…oh, damn, right.” He glances at me.
I get it. Since I’m not safely tucked into bed, Farrow is at work. On-duty. But if he wanted to drink, he wouldn’t have invited me here.
I unzip my jacket, getting hot.
Oscar leans back on the stool and calls out, “I’ll take a Corona, Redford.”
“Nice choice, get it yourself.”
Donnelly joins in, “Make me a bloody one.”
Oscar says, “Changed my mind, I’ll take a Blue Moon with an orange slice.”
“Still don’t care.” Farrow shuts the fridge and raises his brows at me like what’d I tell you about them? Truthfully, it seems like they’re his closest friends.
He returns with a bottled water and Lightning Bolt! energy drink. “What are we playing?” Farrow positions his stool nearer to mine before he sits down. His thigh right up against my thigh.
My hand slides on his knee, and I grab my water with the other.
Our eyes lock for a second. I wish I could sling my arm around his shoulders. But I can’t.
We can’t.
We’re in a public setting, and a stranger isn’t catching us at 3-something-a.m. in Chicago.
“Liar’s dice,” Thatcher says and gently sips his whiskey.
“How do you play?” I ask.
Oscar explains the rules. It sounds simple. Every round 1 person loses a dice, and you’re out of the game when you have no dice in your hand.
The crux of the game: when you lose a dice, you have to choose a truth or dare. They already wrote a bunch of truths and dares on shreds of napkins. All of which are randomly mixed together in Akara’s baseball hat.
Stakes seem higher for me than for them, but I trust SFO. So I’m game.
“Hey, everyone.” Akara drums his fingers on his whiskey glass. “Maximoff should be able to skip any dares or truths that he wants—”
“No,” I cut in. I was afraid of being too domineering again, too stiff and stringent and they’d treat me more like their employer, but I can’t be passive here. “I can play the game like you guys.”
Akara shifts on his stool. “You sure? You can skip anything I wrote down. You should, really. I didn’t think you’d be here.”
Oscar hooks an arm around the co-Omega lead’s shoulders. “Akara strongly suggests and recommends it.”
Alright, they all have some sort of knowledge that I don’t, and before I even ask Farrow, he pops his gum and says, “Kitsuwon plays dirty.”
And by dirty, he means sex questions. Got it.
Akara holds my gaze. “I would’ve gone easier with the truths for you.”
I can’t expect these guys to treat me like I’m one of them if I need half the truths and dares removed. I said I wanted all-in on Farrow’s world, and I’m going all-fucking-in.
So I say, “I’m glad you didn’t know I’d be here then.”
Akara smiles and raises his glass in cheers, and the first round of the game starts. Dice hits the table, we make bets, and Thatcher loses one dice first.
“Oohh,” the table erupts.
Thatcher takes the hat, not saying a damn thing. Being around him on tour, I’ve noticed that if he’s not discussing work, he’s quiet. Brooding. He unfurls the shred of napkin.
“Truth,” he reads. “Strangest place you’ve ever had sex?” One sip of whiskey, he answers, “Back of a Walmart outside.” He crumples the napkin.
Oscar and Akara rib him for choosing Walmart, and he just nods.
Dice in hand, we roll again. More bets and swigs of whiskey, water and Lightning Bolt! and Quinn loses the round.
“Get it, Quinnie,” Donnelly jokes as Akara jostles the baseball hat to the youngest bodyguard. Quinn digs his hand in the napkin shreds.
“Dare, lick the floor.” Quinn shakes his head at Donnelly and slides off the stool. “You’re sick, bro.”
Donnelly smirks.
“Need a puke bucket?” Farrow banters.
Quinn humphs and kneels down. Licking the floor in point-two seconds. Then he’s back on the stool. We roll. Cosmic justice at play, Donnelly loses a dice next.
“Truth,” he reads a napkin, “how much longer do you see yourself working in security? ‘Til I’m dead or fired, whichever one comes first.” He sucks his cigarette and slides the pack to Akara. Filmy haze of smoke clouds the air. It doesn’t bother me, but I’m not much of a smoker.