Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Dude, you can’t even fucking button your jorts? You look like a goddamn slob. How does your wife not leave you?”
“They ain’t fucking jorts,” Randy said, flipping him off around the remote. “Soccer moms wear jorts.”
“Are they jean material?”
“Yes,” Randy grumbled.
“Are they shorts?”
“Fuck off.”
He laughed and plopped on the couch beside his brother, who had an old NASCAR race on the television screen. The couch had seen better days. Hell, their whole trailer had seen better days. Sun-bleached curtains covered the small window above the television. The couch was a freebie they found on a corner in front of someone’s house in the burbs. It had been nice when they found it a few years ago, but it now had a deep indent from Randy’s ass, always sitting in the same spot. The faint smell of cigarette smoke had been there for so long Tate barely noticed it anymore.
“Want a beer?” Randy asked without taking his eyes off the race.
“Nah. Got a question for you, though.”
“Shoot.”
The cars zoomed around the track with a loud whir that reverberated through the room.
“What do you do if you wanna do something nice for Whit?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? Like, I don’t know… if you want to make her feel good. Do something romantic or some shit.”
What the hell were these words coming out of his mouth? Thankfully, Randy seemed too caught up in the race to put his one brain cell toward noticing Tate had lost his mind.
“I don’t know. Sometimes, if I feel up to it, I’ll pick her up a lotto ticket on the weekend.”
He blinked. “Seriously?”
“What? She likes ’em.”
“A lotto ticket. That’s what you do when you wanna impress your wife? You buy her a fucking dollar lotto ticket? Can you please turn the fucking volume down? I can’t hear myself think.”
“Hey, fuck you, Mega Millions costs two bucks,” Randy yelled, but he hit the mute button.
“You’re useless,” Tate said as Whitney walked out of their bedroom.
“Hey, T, what’s up?”
“What’s this bullshit about anyway?” Randy asked.
“Hey, hon,” Tate called to his sister-in-law. Still, as pretty as she’d been in high school, Whitney wore a flowy skirt and crop top showing off her flat midriff. Her looks mattered above all to her, and most of her paychecks from the salon where she worked went toward her appearance.
“What are you guys talking about?” She went into the kitchen and pulled a pan from the sink. After a quick inspection, she placed it on the stove. “Anyone want a grilled cheese?”
“I do, babe,” Randy said as Tate declined. “Listen to this shit, Whit. Tate came over to ask what I do when I wanna do some nice shit for you.”
Her laughter sounded more like a cackle. “This oughta be good. What’d you tell him?”
“Told him I give you my dick. Ain’t nothing nicer, right, baby?”
Whitney snorted. “And you wonder why I call you a dumbass.”
“You know what, forget it.” It’d been a stupid idea anyway.
“No, wait.” Whitney stood at the counter, buttering a slice of white bread. “You talking about a date or something?”
Forget a stupid idea, this was a terrible idea. What had he been thinking? He should scrap this whole thing. But he knew Whitney. That woman was like a dog with a bone. Now that she’d gotten involved, she wouldn’t let up until she had all the details.
“Yeah, maybe. Something like that.” He shrugged.
“Wait, this about your piece in Tulsa?” Randy asked after taking a swig from his beer. “Shit, I thought you were just getting your dick wet. You wanna take this bitch out on a date?”
“Randy, could you maybe try not calling all women bitches? It’s offensive,” Whitney said, shaking her head. She dropped two buttered slices into the pan and began to layer the cheese on top. “I think it’s sweet, T.”
“It’s not… I don’t know. You know what, never mind. It’s stupid.”
“It is stupid. Why the fuck would you go to all that trouble when you already got her willing to fuck you?”
Whitney glared at her stupid husband. “How about a picnic?” she said, shifting her gaze to Tate.
“A picnic?”
“Oh God.” Randy rolled his eyes. “You and your fucking picnics.”
Shrugging, Whitney topped off her sandwiches with a final piece of bread. “It’s nice. You get to eat but have more privacy than a restaurant. You can take your time, be outside, and it shows effort.” She shot a glare Randy’s way. “Women like effort.”
“Yeah, well, men like pussy, babe.”
Tate had been lying about his sexuality for so long that he’d gotten used to hearing them talk about him with women. Obviously, he’d never corrected them, but it hadn’t ever bothered him. It was just another layer of protection for himself.
But hearing them assume Liam was a woman soured his stomach. Liam didn’t deserve to be lied about as his dirty little secret, and that’s exactly what he’d be, what he already was by getting involved with Tate.