Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
But he was not there.
He left a note, as he often does.
It wasn’t a summons, but I came anyway.
So here I am, walking through the fucking woods in the same suit I was wearing yesterday at the prison where I was recruiting people for his trial, and my shoes are muddy.
Two-thousand-dollar shoes. Muddy.
I know exactly where he is. At the fucking clubhouse. And it’s a good mile and a half away from the mansion, so this walk is pissing me off as well.
Finally, the old place comes into view. It’s nearly dark now and I can’t see us walking out of here after dark, so that means we’ll stay.
Perhaps he even set this up.
I know he wants to be alone. That’s always been the reason he came out here. Even when we were kids. But I don’t care. I found him a good crop of people for the trials this time and I’m in the mood to brag.
There’s a light on in the living room, but I can’t see past the tattered curtains. So I just walk up on the porch, open the door, and enter.
He turns to me, surprised, maybe even startled. “Locke? What are you doing here?”
“You left a note.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you to come up here.”
I sigh. Because I’m not in the mood for his moods right now. “You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
I shake my head, walk into the kitchen, take a glass from the cupboard, then grab a bottle of bourbon on the counter and pour myself a drink. I sip, then gulp it down and pour another. Then, and only then, do I turn back to him. “I found one.”
He narrows his eyes. “Explain.”
I point to the bottle. “Want one?”
He points to an empty glass on the scratched-up coffee table. “I’ve been drinking since yesterday.”
I grin. Mercer’s idea of getting drunk is two drinks an hour, max. I’m surprised he doesn’t have one of those portable breathalyzers. He’s never done drugs and he didn’t even have his first drink until I made him on his twenty-first birthday. He can’t stand being out of control. So maybe he has been drinking since yesterday, but he’s definitely not drunk.
I walk over to the coffee table, pick up his glass, and pour two fingers, then hand it to him.
Sometimes he puts up a fight when I’m drinking, other times he doesn’t. Every once in a while, I think he’s relieved when I make him do this.
His face is filled with relief when he takes the glass from me.
And I know it’s relief because he drinks it down in one gulp. Then turns his back to me, sets his glass down, presses his hands on the counter, hangs his head, takes a deep breath and lets it out.
“For fuck’s sake, Mercer. What the hell is wrong with your day? You’re acting weird.”
He takes another deep breath, then turns to me. “Tell me about the prisoner.”
I nod, smile at him—he almost smiles back—then take myself, my drink, and my bottle over to the couch. I fall back into the cushions, kick my muddy shoes up onto the piece-of-shit coffee table, and nod to the cushion next to me. “Sit. I’ll fill you in.”
He doesn’t want to sit, I know this.
It’s not that Mercer is embarrassed about us. He doesn’t have hang-ups like that. I don’t think Mercer has ever been embarrassed in his life, actually. He only has a few emotional settings and none of them have anything to do with self-reflection. The man has no shame. At all. And even though he can come off as awkward at times, he’s not awkward. That’s just him feeling inconvenienced.
So me showing up here is an inconvenience.
But he must be getting past this, because if he wasn’t, he would just tell me to leave.
He sits. I ease down a little, so my neck is in just the right spot to lean back. Then I sigh. Say what you will about this seventy-year-old couch, it’s comfy.
Mercer does the same.
When I turn my head to look at him, he’s turning his to look at me.
We don’t say anything. He just leans in and kisses me.
And when Mercer kisses someone, he’s all in. I mean, his kiss is fucking perfection. His hands, man. They are always reaching for me in his kiss. They always find my face. And he’s so earnest when our mouths are pressed together. When our tongues are all tangled up and our hearts are beating fast. It’s so honest. In fact, kissing is the most honest thing about Silas Mercer. He really means it.
I kiss him back and then he’s reaching for my hand. Flattening my palm out over his groin. He’s not hard. But the moment I make contact, he begins to grow. I kiss him harder when this happens and then we’re both breathless.