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)
“Uh, yeah?”
Thatcher starts smiling, maybe for the first time all night. I know that look. I’ve worn it before. That’s his family, his home, and it shows.
Akara sips his whiskey. “And you’re my number five, my ride-or-die guy—”
“Alright, now you’re full of shit.”
“Will you marry me, Banks Moretti—”
“Goodnight, SFO.” Banks figures out that Akara is on speakerphone. He hangs up, and Thatcher loses his third dice. Out of the game.
He picks his last truth or dare. “Truth, when’s the last time you jacked off?” He finishes off his whiskey. “Three hours ago.”
“Hotel pit stops are saving us all,” Oscar says and refills his little brother’s whiskey glass.
Farrow, Akara, Oscar, and I only have one dice apiece. Last one left with a dice wins and doesn’t have to do a third truth or dare, and honestly, I want to win.
I play conservatively, but Farrow loses. He sticks his hand in the hat. “Hoping for a dare.” He pulls one out. “Perfect. Dare.” His smile is out of this goddamn world as he reads, “Fake an orgasm at the table.”
Wait. What.
21
MAXIMOFF HALE
Farrow tosses the napkin, not flinching or hesitating. Not for a fucking second. He stands and white-knuckles the edge of the table, and then inhales through his nose like he nears a peak. Holy shit.
Shirtless, his abs noticeably tighten. He bucks his hips into the table a fraction like he’s caught mid-thrust.
I flex, my muscles scorching hot.
Farrow grits down, then mock groans, “Fuuuuck.” His head lolls back; his eyes flutter like he’s experiencing mind-numbing, euphoric pleasure.
A brutal noise rumbles in his throat, struggling to break free. He narrows his gaze, eyes partially rolling back, and then suddenly, he sets them on me.
He starts smiling.
Like he caught me jacking off.
I glare. Trying not to show that I’m turned on like a damn broiler.
“You need a second?” he teases.
More than a fucking second. A solid, hard half hour. I play it cool. “To drink some water, hydrate, and maybe nap, read a book, plan my trip to the fucking moon, yeah. Give me a second.”
They all laugh.
Farrow smiles. “Always a precious smartass.”
I give him a middle finger, and he catches my hand as he returns to his seat and tells the table, “That’s how it’s done, boys.”
Donnelly and Oscar throw napkins at him, and Donnelly says, “Here, wipe yourself up.”
Farrow ignores them, still grinning at me.
Only two rounds left. One winner. We roll, and Akara makes a bad bet. He reads the napkin. “Truth, who is your celebrity crush—” His phone rings on the table.
Everyone goes quiet.
He gingerly picks up his phone and puts it to his ear, cigarette between his fingers. “What’s up? You feel alright?”
I can’t hear the other end, but Oscar mouths the word Sulli to the table.
“We did agree on that,” he says, lips lifting. He stacks a tower of dice. “Tomorrow. Bright fucking early. That’s what you said.” He smiles more. “You forgot. I know you forgot…okay, yeah…I’ll be there. Bye.” He hangs up. “That was—”
“Your celebrity crush,” Oscar says.
I go rigid. Naturally, I want to look out for Sulli. That’s my cousin who I’ve known way longer than any of these guys.
Maybe Akara can tell because he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t listen to Oscar.”
“He doesn’t like buddy-guards,” Farrow tells me.
“Too close for comfort,” Oscar gives his reason.
Akara ignores him. “My celebrity crush is Alicia Vikander from Tomb Raider.”
“I’d bang her,” Donnelly says.
“And she wouldn’t let you,” Farrow adds.
I laugh, and Thatcher hones in on Akara. All business. “What was that about?”
“She woke up and thought she forgot to tell me that she planned to hit the hotel gym at six.” Akara searches the peanut bowl, but most are eaten. “Beckett’s coming along.”
“Cool,” Donnelly says.
Sometimes I wonder when they all sleep, but I’ve seen them nap whenever they can. Used to bizarre sleep schedules.
A malfunctioning timer beeps on my watch. I turn it off and look up at Akara. “You know I told Sulli to text Jack Highland?” I suggested that she contact Jack for interview pointers. I thought it’d help calm her nerves since Jack has experience with fans and media as an executive producer on We Are Calloway.
Akara breaks apart a peanut shell into tiny pieces. “You did?”
“Yeah,” I say, not able to read his expression. “What’s your issue with him? Pretty much everyone likes Jack.”
Akara brushes the shells off the table. “This is the first person that Sulli seems to trust enough to be friends with…and I don’t want her to get hurt.”
I nod, feeling the same. Maybe not about Jack specifically but just protecting Sulli from anyone new in her life. In my cousins’ lives. Partly, it’s why Beckett has his guards up with Farrow. We all feel the need to vet the people that come into our trust circle.
From experience, outsiders are the ones that fuck us over the most.