Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
“What’s happening?” he asks.
“Nothing. I just… forgot there’s a step there.”
Hot as fuck? What the hell.
Felix keeps looking over at me as we walk to his car, I can feel it, and since I’d rather not give him an opportunity to elaborate on all the ways CJ is attractive (really?), I change the subject.
“My brother can’t bake for shit.”
What am I DOING.
“I guess you won’t have to worry about him stretching out your apron then.”
I glare at him across the roof. “He’s not that much bigger than me.”
“Okay.”
“He’s not.” I forget about the thirty pounds of muscle that’s always blatantly on display 24/7 and remain resolute in my argument. “I mean, yeah, he’s a little taller, and he might be able to bench a little more than me. Barely a little more. But I’ve kicked his ass.” I think back. Way back. “Not recently… but it has happened.”
“If you say so.”
Felix climbs into his car, somehow doing it in a way that tells me he thinks I’m so full of shit right now, and then I’m left glaring at absolutely nothing but the fucking sky.
I get in and slam the door.
“Oh, the scowl deepens.”
“This is just my face!” I do anything but scowl when I look over at him.
His laughter is silent as he leans against the door, head tilted toward the window, and I notice something shiny and clear peeking out from underneath the collar of his shirt.
“What is that?” I ask, touching the edge of it with my finger.
Felix sucks in a breath, his chest hitching. I pull my hand away. “Oh. That.” He clears his throat. “I got tattooed today. Dean did it for me.”
“What is it?”
“Um. Just… some words.”
“Words, huh? How descriptive.”
He looks at me so shyly, so carefully, that the chuckle in my throat dies.
“What?” I ask.
Felix nods once, the smallest movement, like he’s decided something, and then he pulls his shirt down and peels the tape away, showing me the words etched into the skin just above his collarbone. All capital letters and the blackest ink.
KISS HERE
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“That’s. Words. Those are words.”
“I told you.”
I wet my dry lips and feel this pounding throb in my dick when Felix watches the motion of my tongue like it’s the most interesting thing in the world to him.
“We should probably go,” I say. “Before we’re late.”
I stare out the front windshield, my brain whispering kissherekissherekisshere.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I pinch my eyes shut.
I shouldn’t answer. I’m not stupid.
This really shouldn’t happen. We really shouldn’t happen.
But I haven’t fucked anyone in months and my feelings about that tattoo are making me regret the jeans I’m wearing, and I’m afraid if I don’t answer, he’ll just ask me again, and if I lie, he’ll look for the truth.
God help me if he feels for it.
And it’s him.
Felix wants me to like this tattoo so badly, I can hear it in the strain of his voice. The quiver to it. He’ll be sad if I don’t say something. He’ll be sadder if I’m indifferent.
“Sure,” I say.
Sure sounds safe.
Not a yes.
Not a hell yes.
Not a you have no idea how much I like it.
“Good. That’s good.”
His voice is thick. I wonder if other parts of him are.
Fucking kill me.
I keep my hands in my lap the entire twenty-minute drive.
We’re sitting in the back row at Mac’s meeting, eating donuts while we listen to everyone speak but us, it seems—I’m not into sharing, and I guess Felix isn’t either—when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I wipe my hands off on my jeans before slipping it out.
CJ sent me an attachment.
You were right. He doesn’t need to be older.
I download the image and scan the article: Factors To Consider When Choosing A Sponsor.
Most of these are common sense.
Take into consideration your sponsor’s sobriety (do they seem happy and content) and how long have they been sober themselves and how many other sponsees do they have. I keep reading, even though I’m not really being informed here, but I check them off as I go. I reach the end of the article. The last factor is bolded. Were all of them?
Consider The Gender of Your Sponsor
I skim the paragraph and feel my teeth grind at the information you’d think is new to me, based on my reaction to reading it.
It suggests choosing a sponsor of the same sex (how dated) to limit the chance of sexual interest.
It warns that romantic entanglements can cause unwanted complications between a sponsor and sponsee, and it’s better to avoid pairings with risk of temptation.
It’s not forbidden. This isn’t a rule.
But it is strongly advised against, and I’m so pissed off reading this, so unreasonably angry—it doesn’t make sense.
An addict needs to put their sobriety first, above everything. Nothing can jeopardize it. Nothing should complicate it.
And sex complicates. Feelings complicate.