Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Ryan belches, and I look down on him with disgust. Once I get him back to his hotel and through the meeting tomorrow morning, I’m going to find a way to limit our interactions. He’s fine at family holidays, but I don’t want to end up on the road with him again.
“Let’s go, pal,” I say as I clap him on the back. “It’s time to get back to the hotel. Early morning tomorrow.”
I feel him start to stand, and even though he’s unsteady, I’m relieved. I thought I’d have to sling him over my shoulder and drag him outside.
“Seriously,” he growls once we hit the sidewalk, “women in New York are the biggest bitches. No sense of humor.”
Not a cab in sight. Shit.
“Actually,” I remind him, “those women were based out of Cincinnati. You’d know that if you ever shut up long enough to listen. And they did have a good sense of humor. We all had a good laugh at your pathetic ass.”
I whistle through two fingers as a cab goes by. The sharp sound pierces the street’s silence and does the trick. The cab stops halfway down the block. I start walking, hoping Ryan will just follow me.
“Fuck you, Chris,” Ryan says defensively. “You think you’re so special.” His voice is just a few feet behind me, so I’m relieved he’ll actually get in the car with me. There’s nothing I want more than to say goodbye to my brother right now, but I won’t leave him here, in the middle of Manhattan alone and loaded.
“Hey, man,” I say to the cabbie as I slide in. “We’ll be making two stops. I’m at The Plaza and my brother here is at the…Ryan,” I shout, trying to get his attention. “Where are you staying?”
I glance down and see he’s opened Tinder and is swiping past pictures of women. I poke him in the ribs to get his attention.
“Standard. East village,” he mumbles, without even looking up.
We drive in relative silence except for Ryan’s occasional remarks: “Whoa look at those tits,” “dog,” “she’d have to wear a bag on her head.” Listening to him is making me angry. I’m angry he has no respect for these women, but I’m also angry he has no respect for himself or the family name.
“Can you shut up, Ryan?” I say. “Just stop it. I can’t listen to you.”
“When did you get so stuck up, Chris?” he spits out the words and they sound as if they’re laced in poison. “Everybody thinks you’re so perfect. The golden child of this family. And it’s gone to your head. You think you’re like Pop, like Martin, but you aren’t. You’re no better than me deep down. So just stop being a God damned pussy all the time.”
I stare out the window and ignore him. After all, we have to present a united front at our meeting in the morning. I can tell he’s looking for a fight. If he can’t find some random woman to debase for the night, a knock-down-drag-out fight with me will take second place. I won’t bite. Because I’m not like him. I’m nothing like him.
We pull up to The Standard and he gets out without even saying goodbye. It’s probably better that way. The car door closes with a loud bang, and as the cabbie pulls away, I see him giving me the finger. As we turn the corner, I see that he’s walking away from the hotel, probably to the bar up the street.
I take out my phone and pull up my text exchange with Weaver from earlier in the day. I promised her space, but right now, I really want to hear her voice, to talk to her. Normally, if I had a shitty night or stressful meeting, I’d hit her up on the Sugar Girl app. Sometimes just a quick “Hi, how are you doing” was enough for me, to connect with her, with Echo. But now that she knows who I am, it’s not simple, and suddenly I realize how much I’ve depended on her companionship, even if it has been over the internet in bytes, rather than sitting side by side, talking to each other.
And after having her last night, I need more. More of her body. I want to feel her skin, taste her. My jacket feels too tight. I hate this feeling, not having control, not being able to get what I want, when I want it. I type.
Please Weaver. Talk to me?
I stare at the screen but there’s nothing to look at. She’s not texting back. My hand hurts from squeezing it so tight, imagining her seeing my message and ignoring me. I’m angry at myself. There are so many mistakes I’ve made, and what if Weaver decides I’m too much trouble? Greater than the anger, though, is desperation. My mind is racing, thinking of ways to persuade her to be with me, to just answer my fucking text. But I don’t know what to do.