Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
The server begins to move his mouth when another member of the staff swings next to him with a plate of food. “Order of Hot Wheels?”
“Boss lady’s…” McCoy says in a defeated sigh. “She got those for us to share.”
“Put ‘em on my tab,” I state to the man who doesn’t have the food. “And whatever else she ordered before she left.”
“I can pay for that shit,” my roommate volunteers as the dish lands on one side of him.
It’s damn near impossible not to growl. “I fucking got it.”
To my surprise, he smirks, nods in a respectful nature, and surrenders his hands.
“And yeah,” I remove the toothpick from my mouth to switch it to the other side, “I’ll take a root beer. Bottle, glass, or paper cup are all fine.”
Our server acknowledges my request prior to seeing if anyone else needs anything.
Once he’s walked away, McCoy reaches for one of the strange concoctions prompting me to investigate, “What’s in those?”
“They’re garlic bread knots stuffed with mozzarella cheese and finally chopped jalapeños,” Jo answers while grabbing one for herself. “They come with some sort of secret spicy sauce, too.”
Her boyfriend lifts the tiny container for her to dip while I allow myself to soak in the first new information about the only woman I’ve ever loved.
She likes spicy food.
Like her banging bod, that’s also new.
Back in the day, she was on the wimpier side of the shit.
Wonder when that changed.
Why.
How.
Fuck, I wonder so goddamn much about her.
“Alright, so,” McCoy begins again, smacking on the snack, “you haven’t spoken to her since you two were in high school?”
“Yeah.”
“Which was when?”
“About ten years ago.” Betrayal by my mouth occurs a second time. “It’s been almost ten years exactly since we last spoke – at prom – and the truth is, I haven’t seen her face outside of my own head fucking head since we graduated.”
Jovi makes some sort of surprised grunt around her chewing.
“And despite how fucked up it’s gonna sound…there hasn’t been a single fucking day since then that I’ve woken up and didn't regret what I did to her. How things fell apart between us. How…,” the demand to own my shit bellows loudly in my brain, “I betrayed her in ways that I’d rather give my own goddamn life for rather than speak about again.”
McCoy’s chewing slows down on a noticeable glance away.
His girlfriend immediately slides a comforting hand onto his leg and provides a soothing squeeze.
I know that look.
I fucking own that look.
I’ve worn it probably more than any other expression in my fucking arsenal.
It’s guilt.
Shame.
Regret.
That action is not only proof that he has his owned fucked up past – which I gathered by his second chance shit during my interview – but that that past relates to Jovi.
And he hates himself for it.
Hates himself for hurting her.
Them.
Too bad he’s forgetting one very fucking vital fact.
She’s still by his side.
She’s still with him.
She forgave him.
Not all of us are that fucking fortunate.
“The reason I started doing drugs and shit back in the day was to numb the pain of being without her. Ultimately, however, it just became my outlet to kill the pain of everything and anything that was wrong or has ever gone wrong in my life. It didn’t take long living like that before I got to a point where it was the only way I could exist in my own skin. And eventually? I was barely even doing that.”
Jovi swallows the last of the appetizer and warmly encourages. “You should talk to her, Collins.”
“She doesn’t wanna talk to me.” The toothpick is jammed back inside my mouth against the opposite cheek as I defeatedly slouch down in my seat. “Fuck, she couldn’t even stand the sight of me.”
“Hate to break it to you, pal, but you’re wrong.”
I keep my stare pinned on my roommate’s girl.
“Don’t get the shit twisted. I’m not an expert on relationships. Or love. Or anything really outside of art – traditional and non-traditional –, understanding how fucking hard it is to be the Commissioner’s daughter – thank God I live in a different state now –, and knowing what it looks like when a girl is terrified of how deeply she feels about someone despite what the person’s done.” She collapses her back against the couch in what appears to be her own mental anguish. “Yeah, I’m very much so an expert on that look.” Her eyes bore deep into mine. “You need to talk to her, Collins. For both your sakes.”
There’s no way that Jovi’s right.
Like it’s just not fucking possible.
Fuck, none of this shit should be possible.
None of it should be real.
We should’ve never fucking crossed paths.
She should be halfway across the country being pampered in some billionaire’s beach bungalow who’s fucking begging her to marry him not living in an impressive but bland townhome starting her life over.