Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Nah. It’ll take a lot more than a stray bullet to kill that asshole.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she says, reaching for her phone across the bed. “You know, I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m almost certain that Diesel might be even grumpier than you.”
A laugh rumbles through my chest, and just as I go to pull Harper back into my arms, she starts madly moving her thumbs across her screen. “What are you doing?” I ask, in awe of the way this woman can go from being fast asleep to full of energy in such a short time.
“Gotta tell Izzy that Diesel got shot,” she tells me. “There’s nothing she loves more than a man who got injured in the line of duty. She’ll be all over that like a rash.”
I shake my head and pull her back down to me, letting her text from her position on my chest, but honestly, I feel . . . off about it. Izzy, Ace, and Diesel are grown-ass adults. They can fuck whoever they want, but this feels different. Usually, when there’s a girl they’re both into, they’ll quickly get her out of their system and move on, only in this case, there doesn’t seem to be any moving on. Neither of them has actually touched her, but neither seems to be giving up. I just hope she doesn’t get between them. They need to have each other’s backs at the very worst of times, and I need to be able to trust that they won’t allow this girl to affect their relationship. They’re brothers before anything else.
Izzy responds to Harper’s text, and whatever she says has my girl snickering next to me, her whole body shaking with laughter. “Oh God. This is going to be messy,” she tells me, tossing her phone toward the end of the bed before looking up at me. “What’s your take on candy stripers? If you had been shot and were wasting away in bed trying to get better, what’s going to get your blood pumping?”
My brow arches, and I grab her by the waist before rolling us across the bed, not stopping until her back is flat on the mattress and my body is hovering above her. “You really wanna know what gets my blood pumping?” I rumble, dipping down and brushing my lips over the sweet curve of her neck as my hand trails down her body and slips inside her sweatpants. “Let me show you.”
And with that, my fingers push up into her cunt, and I watch as her back arches off the bed, the sweetest breath escaping her lips.
10
HARPER-RAYN
Sitting across from Dr. Preston, I awkwardly relax into the too-small armchair. Therapy has been doing wonders for me. At least it was at the start, but ever since finding out that this new stalker was able to get my notes from the hospital and use them as a weapon against me, the idea of opening up suddenly doesn’t seem so enticing.
“Is everything alright?” Dr. Preston asks, watching me through a narrowed gaze, her usually smiley and open demeanor now seeming almost suspicious. “You seem . . . unsettled. Anxious.”
My gaze flicks up to the clock on the wall above her head, counting down the minutes until I can leave. “Oh. Sorry. I hadn’t realized,” I say, feeling a little guilty. Dr. Preston is great. She’s an incredible therapist and has really helped me to start healing and move on from everything that happened. She doesn’t deserve this closed-off version of me. She’s put in too much work to watch me screw it all up now. “I’ll try better.”
“I don’t need you to try better. I just need you to find comfort. Trust. We can’t begin to heal when we are holding back,” she tells me. “I am so pleased with the leaps you have been making. I feel we’ve really been getting to the root of your issues with your mother and the neglect you received from her. However, I have noticed a decline in your willingness to discuss your moments with your masked stalker.”
“I didn’t realize there was a checklist of things I was required to speak about.”
“Not at all,” she says. “It was just an observation that left me curious. Do you not feel as bothered by the events that took place prior to your psychiatric hold?”
“No,” I say. “They still bother me. I think about it every day. Sometimes it leaves me in a cold sweat. But what’s the point talking about it? None of it was real.”
“But it was real to you.”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. My stalker was just some figment of my imagination, and the more I talk about it, the crazier I become. I’m on my meds now, and he’s never coming back, so I don’t see the point in constantly talking about him as though he was somebody worth discussing.”