Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
My brow furrows in confusion only a moment before I remember Twitch has a habit of watching me.
I blurt out, “Do you still watch me?”
So much for sliding the questions in there. My mind slaps its forehead.
Picking up a bread stick, he leans back in his chair and stares at me. Taking a bite of the carby goodness, he nods once. So I ask more gently this time, “When was the last time you watched me?”
Swallowing his mouthful, he sits straighter in his chair. “Today. You and Nicole did some shopping.”
I was not expecting that. Mumbling, “Okay,” I watch as he takes a packet of chocolate buttons from his pocket. Already open, he shoves a handful into his mouth and chews.
Distracted from my train of thought, I utter through a small smile, “I don’t get it? You don’t seem like the colorful chocolate buttons type.”
“Yeah, well, it’s better than going through a shitload of crack.”
That shuts me up. The smile falls off my face.
“I was an addict. I saw what it was doing to me and I quit. Cold turkey. Made Happy take me to the Kimberly’s in W.A., lock me in a cabin, and guard the door at gun point. I told him if I tried to leave, to shoot me.”
Happy? No way. I scoff, “That’s harsh. As if he would shoot you.”
Chewing another handful of chocolate, he barks a laugh. “Damn, girl. He emptied an entire clip around me, forcing me back in.” His smile fades, his face falls, and his eyes lose focus. “You have no idea what withdrawal is like. I swear I could’ve killed someone for a hit that first day. I spent three days puking, feeling as if I was dying, and clawing at my skin. I scratched at my whole body, opening wounds all over. It wasn’t pretty. I pulled a nail clean off just for the distraction. It was fucked. But it’s over.”
My mouth gapes. “Are you telling me you performed a DIY rehab on yourself?”
He nods solemnly.
I can’t believe it. Most of the kids I meet on the street are addicted to something or another, and it takes intense rehab, sometimes for months to get them out of the habit. Some even go back to using. So hearing that Twitch forced himself to rehabilitate…
Its remarkable. Truly remarkable.
I’m beyond impressed with his self-control.
This is the most he’s ever told me, and while I’m on a roll, I ask on a whisper, “Why me?”
This question makes him uncomfortable. I know this from his sudden squirming, and for a moment, I wonder if I pushed too far, too early. That’s when he answers, “Because you’re you.”
He says this as if that should explain it all. But I’m not satisfied with that. I ask, “How long have you been watching me?”
Looking me in the eye, his stare intensifies, “A long time.”
Clearing his throat, he leans forward and says things I never expected to hear. “When you’re an addict, becoming addicted to things is easy to do. And that’s a bit what I’m like. I have an addictive personality. So I stopped drugs, but got hooked on candy. Then I started going to the gym once a week to work off the candy. But it became an obsession. I need to work out three times a day. Then with you…” His gaze softens. “I told myself I would watch you the one time…” He trails off. And although I don’t get it, I understand what he’s saying.
It should be making me sweat, not making my heart swell the way it is. “I’m an addiction?”
He responds quietly, “The worst one. There’s no cure for that addiction.”
I respond breathily, “Oh.”
Suddenly frowning, he states, “I’m not a good person.” Leaning away from me, he adds, “You think a person like me deserves your type of goodness? No. I’ll tell you right now that I don’t.” Seeming frustrated with himself, he bites his thumbnail. “The thing is, I’m selfish. And I don’t give a fuck about what I deserve. All I care about is what I want. And I want you so fuckin’ bad that I’d do almost anything to keep you.”
Alarm bells ring in my head, but my heart flaps its hands their way, shushing them.
Once again, “Oh.” So quiet, I barely hear myself.
My mouth opens, ready to ask another question, when I spot Joe leading two men our way, their arms full of plates of food. A bubble of laughter pops out of me, and Twitch turns to look their way. He smiles and shakes his head.
Joe has one waiter bring over another table for all our plates. Each time he places one down, he explains in detail what the dish is and which part of Italy it originated from. We have steak, pasta, gnocchi, soup, a cheese platter, and thinly sliced prosciutto.