Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
She watches, nods once, and takes position on the right side of the window. I take BITCH. She takes everything else.
Spray paint on glass is stubborn, designed to stick to surfaces that are smooth and non-porous. The scraper helps but it takes effort, and my forearms burn after two minutes.
My shoulders are already protesting from the awkward position, bent forward to reach the top of the letters. The scraping fills the silence between us. Metal on glass, rhythmic and slightly grating.
Five minutes pass. BITCH is mostly gone, just pink ghosts on the glass. My back hurts, my arm hurts. I'm starting to sweat despite the cool morning air, from effort and from being this close to Tate.
"So," Tate says without looking at me. "Your ex."
"Don't want to talk about her."
"She spray-paints on my window. I deserve context."
Fair. I stop scraping and straighten up to give my back a break. God, I'm too old for this shit. "What do you want to know?"
"How long were you together?"
"Eight months."
"And she's still doing this?"
"This is the worst it's been. She's keyed my truck before. Egged Sullivan's. Shows up when I'm closing, stands outside until I notice her. Gets new numbers when I block her. I thought she was done. It's been six months since the last incident."
"How did she even know about me? About the dive bar?"
"I don't know. I don't talk to her, and neither does Jason."
"Yet she decided to handle it."
"She's not … stable."
Tate doesn't respond. The WHORE is proving stubborn, paint layered thick in the O. She attacks it, knuckles white around the scraper handle.
"I'm not actually opening a dive bar," she says suddenly.
I keep scraping, focusing on a pink drip that's trying to resist. "I know."
She stops and stares at me. "Y-you know?"
"I kind of figured it out."
"How long?"
"A few days, maybe." I glance at her, then back to the glass. "The pastry case wasn't subtle."
"It was for storage."
"Yeah, sure." I raise an eyebrow at her. "It was a pastry case. I don't know how low you think of me, but I'm not that stupid. I told you Beth had one."
"And you didn't say anything?"
"Figured you'd tell me when you were ready." I scrape at the last ghost of the B. "Or not. Wasn't my business what you were actually opening, and it was fun watching you trying to cover up your lie."
"Ugh, all that effort for nothing. I panicked that first day. You were being an ass, so I said the first thing that came into my head."
"A dive bar."
"Because I knew it would piss you off." She pauses, scraper still against the glass. "I'm actually opening a library cafe. Romance section, literary fiction, poetry. Good coffee. Fresh pastries every morning. Cozy reading nooks. The whole thing."
I nod. "That makes sense."
"What does?"
"The bookshelves. Floor-to-ceiling, custom built-ins, sliding ladder. Kind of gave it away."
"You were watching my renovation?"
"Hard not to." I don't mention that I've been watching more than I should. That's not relevant to this conversation, and there are things I'm keeping to myself. This is one of them.
Both of us are sweating despite the cool morning, from effort, from the sun climbing higher and heating the air. Tate's hoodie is tied around her waist now. Her shirt is thin, damp with sweat, clinging to her.
I make myself focus on the glass and not on the outline of her body, not the curves, not her breasts, not the round globe of her ass. Because I'm not a fucking hormonal teenager.
Feeling the telltale sign of hardening in the front of my pants, I shake off my legs and dig my heels into the ground. Anything to redirect my thoughts.
Tate reaches for the same spot I'm scraping, and her forearm brushes mine. The contact lasts maybe two seconds before we shift positions, but I feel it everywhere. My cock's hard now. As hard as it’s been for years. Since Marianne handcuffed me to the staircase and…
An engine cuts through the quiet. A familiar silver Lexus SUV with a rattling exhaust Marianne refused to fix so her dad would buy her a new one.
Goddammit. She's here.
Tate glances at me and follows my gaze to the street. Marianne parks at the curb and gets out, heels clicking on pavement, her hair and makeup perfect because, well, of course they are. I’m thinking, who wears heels this early?
"Tom, baby."
I straighten, putting myself between Marianne and Tate without thinking about it. "Go home, Marianne. You've caused enough trouble."
She stops three feet away and sees the window—faint pink ghosts where letters used to be, scrapers in our hands, a bucket of dirty water at our feet. I've known Marianne long enough to see the moment she switches to cold fury. "You cleaned it."
"What did you think I'd do? Leave it?"
"I did that for you!"
"I didn't ask for your help."