Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I nodded.
“See ya later, friend,” Law said, walking to the door. “Come on, Bear. Let’s go home, boy.”
And the two of them left me alone with my thoughts.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lawson
The call came through early the next morning, and I wasn’t surprised by it. Not because I offered to help Remy. People offered shit all the time, but that didn’t mean others took them up on it. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have, but I knew he would with me. I wanted him to with me, making me realize that maybe I craved this friend thing more than I wanted to admit to myself.
Once I’d stopped being an asshole yesterday and let my guard down, we fell into an easy comfort with each other, one I had with most people, but he didn’t. And one that, regardless of the effortlessness with which I formed relationships and friendships with people, was different with him.
Being with Remy had always made me feel special. It wasn’t in a way I was familiar with. Maybe it was because I knew how hard it was for him to trust people, yet somehow he trusted me. Because I knew he didn’t let people in, but he’d let me. I’d called him an old soul, and he was. I’d never known anyone like him, someone who was so deep and introspective and put everyone else before himself. It had fascinated me, this guy who was eighteen like me but was such a poet and thought about shit I didn’t think about and hurt for people he didn’t know.
It had made me want to be better.
And again, it had made me feel exceptional that someone like that had seen something in me.
“Fuck,” I groaned, shaking those thoughts from my head. I was spending too much time focusing on Remy. I sure as shit didn’t think about Knox, Griff, or Chase as much as I did him, and they were supposed to be friends, just the same.
So I fed Bear, jumped in the shower, rubbed one out because I really needed to come, then got dressed.
“You gotta stay here, boy. I’ll be back later,” I told my dog as I headed out, then climbed into my truck and drove down the gravel road to Remy’s place.
Remington Monroe’s goddamned house. How in the fuck had this happened?
He was locking the door when I pulled up. He had on another pair of old jeans, a faded navy-blue T-shirt, and a ball cap low on his head, auburn hair sticking out from under it.
“Is that your disguise?” I asked when he climbed into the truck.
“That sounds an awful lot like you’re making fun of me,” he countered with a smile curling his lips.
“No! Me? I would never,” I teased. “I mean, it’s a great costume. I hardly recognized you.”
Remy rolled his eyes. “You’re feisty as shit this morning.”
I shrugged. He was right. I was. That wasn’t odd for me, but it had been a long time since I was this way with him. “I slept well last night, and it’s a day off. What’s not to be feisty about?” He shrugged, and though he didn’t have dark circles under his eyes, I was pretty sure he hadn’t slept as well as I had. Or as well as I had once I’d stopped obsessing about the time we spent together yesterday. “Let me guess, you were playing most of the night.”
“You know how it is.” I began driving, and he continued, “Nothing is right, though. I don’t feel… It’s as if it’s not a part of me. I get that stuff like that sounds crazy, but—”
“It doesn’t sound crazy. It’s you. You’ve always spoken like that, and I’ve always understood.”
“You’re right. I forgot. I haven’t done that with someone else in a while.”
My heart thudded against my chest. Did he not talk to anyone? Had he not allowed himself to let anyone in since me? “What about Brittany? You guys are…whatever you are.”
“Sometimes, but it’s not the same. She’d listen, but I don’t…”
He didn’t talk music with people that way. It was all surface stuff. At least when it came to how it made him feel. It was a part of him, and Remy didn’t share himself easily. Singing or writing, that was different. He was able to open himself up that way, but he didn’t share what was inside him in regular conversations, which meant he didn’t share music in a real way.
“You should talk to her. It’s okay to be real with people.”
He turned toward me, his brows furrowed in confusion, as if he was taken aback that I told him to open up to her. We were friends now. Friends were supposed to want what was best for each other, and while I would listen, he couldn’t lean on me. We weren’t together anymore.