Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“If by ready you mean terrified?” Emmy asks. “Then sure.”
“Great!” Stella nudges Gabe out of the booth and pops up to her feet. “Let’s go!”
We all file out of the pizzeria, but instead of heading for where we parked, Stella guides us in the complete opposite direction.
“You’re really not going to tell us where we’re going?” I ask, rubbing my hands over my upper arms for warmth.
“We’re here!” she says, gesturing game show style to the big building behind her.
“Are you for real?” Gabe asks, excitedly knocking his shoulder into Zach’s.
“Yup.” She rocks forward on her toes. “I figured we could all blow off a little steam.”
“Stell…” Emmy hedges, her brown eyes ping-ponging between her best friend and the illuminated sign over head that reads: Sky High Trampoline Park.
“Have I ever steered you wrong?” Stella steps forward, slinging an arm around Emmy’s neck. “Seriously, have I?”
“I guess not.”
“It’s just some good old fashioned bouncy fun. C’mon!”
Emmy looks toward me and I shrug. “I mean, it sounds kind of fun…” Even if I do feel a little guilty about being here without Maverick.
She turns to Zach for backup, only to find he and Gabe are already heading for the door.
“C’mon, sweets.” Gabe crooks his finger at Emmy. “Let’s jump the night away.”
Emmy sucks in a deep breath and then links her arm with Stella, who links hers with mine, and together, the three of us head inside, ready to cut loose and relax, if only for a little while.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ORION
It’s been about an hour since Frankie and Stella left, and for nearly all sixty of those minutes, Mav and I have been snuggled up on the couch watching Spiderman.
He’s a little clingier than usual, laying completely on top of my lap with his arms around my neck and his head on my chest. The kid looks like he’s about two seconds away from conking out for the night.
“You ready for dinner?” I ask, running my fingers idly through his messy hair. “Samson should be here soon.”
“O,” he groans, snuggling closer. “I feel funny.”
“Funny like what?” I press the back of my hand to his forehead like my mom used to do to me. He feels clammy more so than warm; that means he’s not running a fever.
At least I think it does. Right?
“I don’t know.” His voice sounds smaller than I’ve ever heard it. Puny even, and nothing like the larger-than-life Maverick I know. “Bad.” His tummy gurgles right then, as if to say see…bad!
“Maybe I should find you something to eat instead of pizza?” I try to ease out from under him to see if we have any soup, but he whimpers and clutches at the fabric of my shirt. “You want me to stay?”
“Yeah.”
Settling back against the couch, I carefully readjust Maverick on my lap. I know I should call Frankie, but my phone sits just out of reach on the coffee table.
But Samson should be here any minute. I’ll call her then.
I try to focus on the show, knowing all I can do is wait, but worry for Mav crowds my brain, forcing out all other thoughts.
Thankfully, a few minutes later, the front door swings open and Samson struts in. “Who’s ready for guys’ ni—”
“Shh!” I cut Samson off, holding one hand up in the air, quickly curling my fingers into a closed fist. “Maverick’s sick.”
“Damn, really?” he asks from somewhere behind me.
“Yeah. Can you hand me my phone?” I nod my head toward the coffee table.
“Let me set this stuff down in the kitchen.”
I press my hand to Maverick’s forehead again, and then his cheek. Shit. He definitely feels warmer than he did last time.
A minute or two later, Samson joins us, passing me my phone before dropping down into the chair on the other side of the room. “He okay?”
“I don’t know, man. He’s warm and says he feels bad.”
“O!” Maverick cries my name—and that’s all the warning I get before he vomits all over me, and my phone.
“Holy shit!” Samson gags, leaping from his chair like his ass is on fire and running out of the room. “Is he possessed?”
“He’s sick, you jackass!” I shout after him. “Grab a towel and some cleaning stuff.”
The smell is fucking awful, but Maverick’s soft cries steal all of my attention. “Are you okay, bud?”
“I’m s-s-sorry,” he says, hiccuping. “I d-didn’t mean to.”
“Hey, no. Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
He sniffles and then wipes his nose on what might be the only clean part of my shirt. “I want my mama.”
“I know you do, bud. Let’s get you cleaned up and I’ll call her, okay?”
Samson walks into the room with a bath towel draped over his shoulder, a roll of paper towels tucked under his arm, cleaning spray in one hand, and the other plugging his nose. “Here.” He sets everything down and scuttles back into the foyer.