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)
How?
“I’ll let you go, Thatcher,” she says in a whisper. “Um, I’m…you know…” She sighs in frustration at herself. “À la prochaine.” Until next time.
I stare at my reddened eyes in the mirror. “See you, Jane.” I feel like a jackass. Should’ve stopped her. Should’ve said more.
We hang up.
And I could rattle the sink and scream. Instead, I stay in a lunge, clutching the life out of the porcelain.
I smother the sound of the shower drip by turning on the faucet again, and I rinse out my mouth, blood washing down the drain. As I splash more water at my face, cooling off, the bathroom door swings open. I expect to see my brother.
But it’s someone else.
12
THATCHER MORETTI
The white-haired, tattooed bodyguard saunters inside the bathroom. Shutting the door behind him. Farrow’s barbell piercing rises with his brows. “You look like shit.”
“You must love this.” I wipe water off my face with my bicep.
“Eh, I don’t hate it.” He smiles.
It causes my lip to twitch in 1/1000th of a smile, which is more than usual. Especially around him.
Farrow leans on a stall door. “See, I know what it’s like to be decked in the face for sleeping with a client.”
I almost laugh. Yeah, I’m the one who punched him. I can’t find any words, and we end up just staring awkwardly at each other.
He combs his inked fingers through his hair. “You okay?”
I nod once.
“Your eyes were glazed back there.” He touches his dangling earring. “It’s none of my business, and prying is not my favorite thing but I just remember you saying you only have nightmares.” Farrow Keene has become one of the only people on the team I feel safe enough to talk with about PTSD, because he’s experienced some form of this shit too.
I nod again. “I don’t know what happened,” I admit.
“Okay.” Farrow thinks for a second. “Could you tell if there was a trigger? A sound or maybe a feeling?”
“I don’t know for sure.” I curl longer pieces of my hair behind my ears. “Could’ve been me getting punched. But I’ve been hit before and not been thrown back like that.”
He rubs his lip piercing, tilting his head from side to side.
“What?”
“You let O’Malley hit you.”
I’m quiet.
Farrow nods a couple times. “Have you dropped your hands before?”
Not like that.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Your natural instinct is to survive.” Farrow stands off the stall. “Putting your body in a panicked state could potentially throw you back.”
Makes more sense, and this fog starts clearing. He didn’t have to come in here and talk to me, but I appreciate it. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He’s scrutinizing my face.
I skim my tongue over my swollen lip. I taste blood. Glancing at the mirror, I clearly see that I busted my fucking lip open.
Farrow sticks a new piece of gum in his mouth. “That’s not healing in four days, by the way.”
Fuck. Shit. “Mannaggia,” I curse out loud, and I rake my hand across my unshaven jaw. The twin switch—I can’t pretend to be Banks if I’m the one with a visible wound. This isn’t a bruise I can conceal with makeup.
I should’ve been thinking.
An apparent, unspoken solution hangs between Farrow and me. My muscles flex and eyes tighten. “I’m not punching my brother.”
Farrow chews his gum slowly. “Will he be thrown back if you do?”
I take a beat. “No. Banks doesn’t have PTSD.” Just physical pain. My brother still hides his frequent migraines from everyone. Hell, he covers up most injuries.
Just then, the door cracks open. Banks slips inside the bathroom, concern cinching his brows.
“I’m snapped to,” I tell him.
He nods, and I explain how Farrow doesn’t think my lip will heal before I fly out.
Banks cuts me off midway through. “Those idiots are as sharp as marble—they won’t be able to tell a difference if we both have busted lips.”
Yeah.
“So someone needs to hit me in the mouth,” Banks states.
I barely nod, neck stiff.
“It can’t be you, Thatcher.” Banks sounds adamant.
I stare hard at my brother.
We’ve wrestled and sparred each other plenty before, but I can’t lie—this feels different. Maybe because I just got my mind right.
I turn to Farrow.
His lip rises, entertained at the absurdity of this situation. “You really want me to hit your brother?”
“I’m not forcing you,” I tell him. “But yeah.” I trust Farrow.
I’ve always trusted him. And I need him.
“Okay.” Farrow slides off his silver rings from his right hand. His smile grows. “Shit, this is not how I thought today would be going.”
Banks begins to smile and kneels on the tile. “Just don’t knock my teeth out.”
Farrow has a strong right hook, but the Oliveira brothers were pro-boxers and would do worse damage in a single blow.
“You’re not the Moretti brother I’ve wanted to uppercut,” Farrow says lightly. “Your teeth are safe.” His joke alleviates some tension.