Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Something, a choked, sad little voice deep within me said words I didn't want to hear.
Don't worry; you won't have to.
Because, the fact of the matter was, he was going to leave. Once we got the gun, or once the time ran out on the deadline, he would leave. And, chances were, I would never see him again.
Unless, maybe, he lost his position in the MC, needed a job, decided to stay in the business, came to work with us.
But that, well, that was what could only be referred to as wishful thinking.
And things like that, yeah, they were dangerous.
And not in the way I was used to, in the way that would result in external injuries and pain.
Oh, no.
It was dangerous in a whole other way, in a way I hadn't known in so long that I barely remembered it was a possibility.
It was dangerous because wishful thinking and hope led to the kind of pain that couldn't be seen, the kind that often never healed, the wounds etched deep in your heart or soul, the ones that you felt the strongest in quiet moments when there was nothing to distract you from it anymore.
Hoping for a future with Roderick - even just a chaste, professional future - when the chances of it were slim, almost nonexistent, yeah, that had the potential to put little cracks in a place I would have sworn was hard as stone except for toward Camden and Astrid.
My heart.
Roderick had the potential to hurt me there.
And that, somehow, was more terrifying than the idea of a repeat of the events of a few nights before if Astrid didn't come in time, if we had all met our bloody ends right there in a parking garage in The Bronx.
"What's that look for, mami?" Roderick asked, moving his food around his plate, but not actually eating any. Maybe because his focus was on me.
"It's going to be weird when this is all done," I admitted, shrugging.
"When I leave," he specified, not letting me have my vagueness.
"Yeah, when you leave. We've gotten kind of used to having you around."
"We?" he asked, brow raising a little.
"Yes, we. I'm not the only person who lives here."
"Admit it. You have gotten used to having me around."
"It's been nice to have an empty sink," I allowed, smiling a little when he snorted at me. "And not having to crush the garbage down so I can cinch it closed."
"And?"
"And having something for breakfast that isn't donuts for a change."
"And?"
He wasn't going to let it drop until he heard what he was after, what I was trying to avoid. The full truth.
"And having you in my bed," I admitted, not quite able to meet this eyes as I told him. He said nothing. And it took only a few seconds for the silence to feel deafening. "I sleep better," I admitted, shaking my head.
"With me there," he specified.
"Yes, with you there."
"I figured as much from that night in the hotel. I've never seen someone travel all over the bed like you did. You only stilled and passed out fully when you rolled onto me."
Rolled onto him.
That gave me a way out of this uncomfortable conversation.
"Speaking of rolling onto you... how is your arm?"
The appendage in question slammed down on the table, wrist up, showing me the pink, healed-over marks with the silver threads that were likely due to be pulled out. "There. And nice try, but you're not changing the subject."
"Why not? Talking about it isn't going to change anything. So what if I sleep better when you're in my bed? You're going to be gone in a few days. I will go right back to not sleeping well alone in my bed. And you... you will fall into many other beds. Doing things that don't involve cuddling and talking about how much we miss warm beaches."
"Livvy..."
"Let it drop, Roderick," I demanded, standing as quickly as I could, taking my plate over to the garbage, scraping the food that no longer felt even remotely appetizing into the garbage before depositing the plate into the sink, turning, and moving away to my bedroom.
It was stupid, but I felt a stinging in my eyes, something foreign and uncomfortable.
Tears.
Over something as stupid as sleep.
Except, of course, I wasn't so dense that I couldn't see that sleep was just the surface of it.
See, I liked Roderick.
I liked Roderick in a way I was sure I had never liked a man before.
Because I never let myself get attached. Men, in my life, had been transient, just a fun, sweaty escape from the often grim, brutal realities of my life.
I didn't get attached.
I had never actually wanted to.
I thought I was fulfilled.
I had my career.
And I had Camden and Astrid there to be my sounding boards, to be a constant source of company, to be my confidants, my dinner mates, my movie buddies.