Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
He catches me in a front piggyback. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist—his hands cup the backs of my thighs.
Hoisting me higher on his tall build.
Oh.
My.
God?
I hold his neck, and our eyes sink into each other. As though the world falls hush around us, as though meeting the safety I’ve always craved has the power to stop time and grow impossible gardens. As though we’re Adam and Eve and whatever sinful deed we commit, we’ll commit together.
Wild pieces of my hair stick to my lips. His narrowed gaze is full of purpose and potency.
He breathes hard.
I breathe harder. “Thatcher.” I can’t leave my best friend. I can’t leave him, and I’m not ready to be dragged out of this bar like I always am when Maximoff fights.
“You’re my eyes,” Thatcher says strongly. “Watch Banks. He’s helping Farrow and Maximoff. Copy?”
“Yes.” I inhale. “I’ll be your eyes.” I scrutinize Banks. His arms are extended, and he barricades the angered bar patrons from physically confronting Maximoff and Farrow.
My pulse decelerates for the first time, and I realize it’s because I’m in Thatcher’s arms.
He takes charge and yells at Tony. “Tell your friend to mind his own fucking business! Or take him out of here!”
“My friend?!” Tony unleashes a bitter laugh. “Gio and I haven’t been friends since we were sixteen! If it were up to me, I wouldn’t even be in this shithole!”
I can practically feel Tony gesturing to the rustic green bar sign above the televisions.
The one that reads: South Philly Brew.
Thatcher has spent countless nights at this sports bar with his family. He’s told me about how his uncles would buy Banks and him beers when they were teenagers. Yes, even underage, and they’d watch football and blow off steam.
He’s rigid against me, boiling. “You grew up in this shithole like the rest of us!”
“And I made it out! Unlike you!”
I cringe, hating every little jab that Tony loves to take. South Philly is a beautiful place, and I want to turn and defend Thatcher to the death, but I made a promise to watch Banks.
Not coming to my boyfriend’s defense—it hurts like a billion blades in my stomach, but I force myself to stay pinned to his brother.
Ohh…
No.
No.
My eyes grow as a thin guy in a winter beanie stands on a chair, a plastic shopping bag in hand. What did he buy?
For what purpose?
“Gio, sit down!” Banks yells.
“Thatcher,” I warn.
He swings his head, and immediately, he lowers me to my feet, his towering height shielding me.
Zeroing in on the target, Thatcher yells, “Che cozz’!”
He’s taught me enough Italian that I remember the translation: What the fuck are you doing?
“Just bought this for you, Moretti!” Gio digs his hand in the shopping bag. “So you can tie up your rich bitch!” He chucks an object at us, but Farrow intercepts first and catches what looks like restraint cuffs, meant to tie a submissive to a bed.
I boil. “I do not like BDSM!” I shout at the top of my lungs, as though the whole world will hear me.
“Prove it!” He points from me to Thatcher, as though we’ll fuck in front of everyone.
My face twists in disgust and ire. I loathe this redundancy more than anything, how I always find myself here, shouting the same phrase and meeting the same unwelcome result.
It is infuriating.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Maximoff almost charges at the guy.
Farrow puts Moffy in an arm-lock and whispers rapidly in his ear. Banks is pushing other men back from us.
And Thatcher—he could spark infernal damnation in a single glare. “She has nothing to prove to you.” He projects his voice without yelling.
I touch a slow-growing smile on my face. I can’t believe I’m smiling. I perch my hands on my wide hips, chin raised, and then—
Boom!
I flinch.
Thatcher clasps my hand and draws me behind his back. Every head whips to the noise behind the bar as an older gray-haired gentleman bangs a baseball bat to the counter.
“EVERYONE OUT!” he yells.
Complaints gather from whispers to shouts.
“I SAID OUT! I OWN THIS DAMN BAR. I SAY YOUSE GO, YOUSE GO!” He points the bat at the door. People begin to shift, and I snatch my wedding binder before another pair of hands do.
“You wanna lose business, Jerry?!”
“I’m losing nuthin’. I get ten grand just to get you shitheads outta here!” He suddenly aims his bat towards me and Maximoff. “Youse can stay. Everyone else, go!”
Ten thousand dollars?
I go cold. This makes little sense.
People shoot us nasty glares and huff on their way out. I hear rich bitch! yelled at me, as though this is my doing. Snowy gusts blow inside as bodies exit, the bar slowly clearing. Leaving behind a beer-spilt floor, crooked chairs, and littered tabletops.
Moffy and I exchange a tentative look, and I sense our bodyguards talking amongst themselves and hawk-eyeing all the passing, disgruntled people. I hug the binder and lean into my best friend. “Did you pay the owner to clear out the bar?”