Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
In my arms.
The group chat only gives me bits and pieces. Kane and Jude are clearly overprotective of him. They keep checking whether or not he took his meds. Even late last night, they were both texting to check in about his whereabouts, and Jude was asking, “What the fuck was that in the parking lot? Answer me, Pres. Are you okay?”
He grumbled for a bit, then told them he was fine and spending the night at his dad’s.
Liar.
Jude and Kane mention the word “spiraling” a lot. Which I suppose he tends to do.
His chat with Jude is mostly about meds, food, training, and general annoying details, considering their cohabitation.
That has to end as soon as possible.
If he needs someone to keep him in check, that will be me, not Jude.
And no, I don’t give a fuck about their “besties” status. I don’t like another man babying what’s mine.
That’s my job.
I scroll to his exchanges with his father, since that’s obviously a wound he refuses to treat. Dad (Aka Daddy Issues)—as Preston saved him—is what I’d expect from the leader of the Armstrong family. Terse, austere, marginally out of his depth with Preston’s over-the-top humor and ironclad deflection methods.
The moment his dad turns serious, which is most of the time, Preston comes up with the most random replies.
Dad
We need to discuss your behavior yesterday.
Or you can have someone handle me
What?
Sure, Dad. Let’s pretend *someone* doesn’t exist. Makes both our lives easier.
Preston. Who is someone?
Right. Right. We’re doing this. Gaslighting King
And another one.
Dad
The Armstrong Gala is in two weeks. Attend. Presentable. Sober.
Define “sober.”
Not injured or drunk.
So that means I can be high on Julian’s drugs or nah?
Then another.
Dad
Why did the trainer say you have bruises again? Are you fighting?
Fighting my demons, sure thing, Dad. Love the gaslighting, makes me feel all the fatherly love.
Preston, can you drop the sass and talk like a normal human being?
Sorry, I can’t speak robot. Do they offer classes in your native language?
And another.
Dad
Stop skipping your appointments with your doctor. You need consistency.
You picking a fight or something? I DO go to therapy. I literally went today.
Where?
The doctor’s living room. She made tea. We talked about boundaries and daddy issues.
Which “she” are you talking about?
Wow, you sound just like her. Are you two in cahoots or something?
The last conversation, earlier today, leaves me gripping the phone tighter, my fingers halting in his hair.
Dad
You’re not yourself lately.
Haven’t been myself my entire life, Dad. Thanks for noticing, though. Better late than never.
If something is wrong, I need to know.
Bold of you to assume I know what “wrong” feels like.
What does that mean?
Relax. Dr. Fenwick explained it to me. Apparently, I’m “malfunctioning.” Julian must’ve told you, no? Displaying signs of psychosis and all that crazy-people bullshit I won’t bore you with. Might get rid of me sooner than you think. Congrats, Dad. Aren’t I a good son? Finally, am I right?
This is not funny.
Never said it was. Just mentioned it was happening. You know like what happened when I was a kid. Shit just happens, and I can’t stop it.
That was not your fault, son. You know that, right?
Why are you calling me son? It’s creeping me out. Literal chills and not the good kind.
You are my son.
But I wasn’t your son when I needed you the most, when Mom needed you the most, and now, I just don’t need you anymore, Dad.
A low grunt against my neck pulls my attention from his phone, and I exit the texts and throw it against the pillow where he left it.
Preston’s arms are still wrapped securely around me as he pulls back to stare at me.
And fuck. He looks so beautifully boyish with his bedhead and sleepy face. There’s a softness to him I’ve never witnessed before, something so delicate and barely stitched together that I want to protect.
“What time is it?” The rumble of his hoarse, sleepy voice goes straight to my dick.
He’s a very simple dick—he hears or feels Preston, and he’s ready to roll.
“Around eight thirty,” I say, laying my hand on his waist, the other still stroking his hair.
Preston seems kind of distracted by what I said and doesn’t focus on how my palm is roaming up his body, along the scales of the serpent on his side.
The sheet is somewhere at the foot of the bed after Preston kicked it away, and I just left it there.
I’m a warm sleeper anyway, and Preston seemed to only need my body heat during the night.
“I slept for that long?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though the question seemed more directed at himself.
“I usually can’t.” His husky voice sounds in awe.
“No?”
“No. I watch Tom and Jerry for hours on end to fall asleep.”
I chuckle, raising a brow. “Tom and Jerry, really?”
“Really.” He glares even though red tints his ears. “You better not judge me.”