Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Oh,” pops out of me. I turn my back to his naked ass and have to force Mona to do the same. Not before she gets a good eyeful of him, though.
“Fucking hell, you ladies are loud,” he grumbles, voice gravelly from disuse and his mouth buried in his pillow.
So he lives. “We were worried you were…” I pause for lack of a diplomatic answer.
“I was what?” he snaps. “I can’t even have a damn beer.”
“Dead,” Mona volunteers.
“Hate to disappoint, but I’m still very much alive.”
He sounds salty about it. Maybe Mona was right once again—he’s depressed. “Have you eaten?” I ask. No response. “We brought your spa food.”
“Fanfuckingtastic.”
“You should really eat something,” I press. “Afterward, we can talk about your work schedule… for your community service hours,” I’m quick to add, voice shakier than I want it to be because I can feel the tension rising in the room even with my back turned to him.
I hear him moving around behind me. Which is basically my cue to grab Mona and run, but…
“See yourselves out,” he says as he walks past us, bare-assed, dick swinging, and disappears into his bathroom.
Taking Mona by the wrist, I hustle us out of the trailer and slam the door shut. I’ll note that it took a few extra tugs to get her moving.
“That was nerve racking,” comes out of me, along with the breath I was holding.
Mona smiles. “That was worth it.”
Chapter 5
You would think things would get better after the first few days. That we would fall into a routine of sorts and everyone––and when I say everyone, I mean the resident criminal––would behave as required by his court-ordered mandate.
You would be wrong.
Following the trailer incident, I catch Aidan (with the help of my trusty new binoculars) going for a jog around the ranch. He’s hard to miss because––and no, I’m not joking––all he has on are black boxer briefs, a pair of fluorescent yellow running sneakers, a red bandana wrapped around his head, and 70s Elvis sunglasses hiding his eyes. Oh, and let’s not forget the ankle monitor.
It’s about ninety degrees and as arid as a summer in Kandahar. The jog doesn’t last very long, under twenty minutes. And that’s a good thing, otherwise I would’ve had to pull out my med bag.
The next time I spot him, while I’m loading the hay on the cart by myself, he’s on the roof of his trailer kicking back on a beach chair, catching rays and smoking a cigar. Not gonna lie, I was a little peeved.
Am I a prison warden? No, I am not. I can’t make this guy do anything. The question is: can he and his henchmen make me sign the court documents that swear he is complying?
By the time I finish night check, around 8:30, I’m ready to take a shower and crash. “Night, my babies,” I say on my way out. “Sleep well and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Beautiful old and young faces stare back at me. We’ve lost two rescues overnight due to old age, and ever since then, I get a little nervous at night, not knowing what I might find in the morning.
At the barn door, I spot Shane Hughes coming back from a run and my feet come to a sudden stop. Looks like this Hughes inherited all the smarts in the family and left none for his younger brother. Running at night when it’s cool and comfortable and he’s in no danger of dying from sunstroke is definitely the smarter choice.
Without thinking, I turn off the lights so he can’t see me. And no, I’m not ready to examine why, though I have a pretty good idea.
He stops in front of the guesthouse and wipes his face with the hem of his USMC t-shirt with the arms cut off. Technically, you’d call this a muscle shirt, which is fitting in this scenario because this dude has plenty of them. His shoulders are round and hard and attached to equally-sculpted biceps.
My eyes take in every little detail. The ones that they haven’t already taken in. His strong hands and blunt fingers. The veins snaking up from his wrist to his forearm. The bulge of his pecs under the sweaty t-shirt. The swell of his butt under the silky shorts.
I’m going to hypocrite’s hell for this. Which is way worse than the regular kind because you’re forced to act out all the things you detest most.
Breathing deeply, hands on his hips, Shane Hughes eyeballs his brother’s trailer a few times. Something tells me he’s wants to go over, but he takes two steps in that direction and stops. Watching the trailer, he continues cooling off, grabbing his toes from behind to stretch his quads.
What the heck is going on between these two brothers? I now realize I haven’t seen them in each other’s company once since they arrived. Not even having a conversation.