Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Farrow rolls his eyes. He’s intimidating to most, but as my boyfriend, the worst of the worst kinds of humans will try to provoke him for fifteen minutes of fame.
Chair scraping back, I stand up next to Farrow. “Kids are here,” I growl. “Go back to your goddamn booth.”
My temp bodyguard is speaking into his radio. Hesitating.
“You seem tense, Maximoff.” The guy takes a single step back. “That’s what happens when you trade down—”
“Fuck you,” I sneer, and Farrow fists the back of my shirt—because I almost lunge. Then he holds the back of my head, protective. Comforting. Telling me not to defend him and let street hecklers get to me.
Take a breath.
“You’re just like your dad.” He smirks at me. “How’s Ryke Meadows doing, by the way?”
My fist stays at my side. Ryke isn’t my dad, but I’ve lost the urge or need to spit that truth. I don’t move. I don’t charge at him.
But I also can’t speak.
Farrow raises his brows at the guy. “Your opinions are fucking ugly. And we’re not here for that shit. You want a fight, go fight with the little fuckers you call friends.” He points at the booth.
The guy chokes on a breath. He opens his mouth to say something else, and then shuts it. His eyes dart to the left where my temp bodyguard finally nears.
Farrow turns to him first. “Call SFA and get a couple guys over here. We’ll be in the bathroom until you kick this shithead out.”
“I’m not leaving,” the heckler snorts.
I look to the temp bodyguard. “You have five minutes,” I tell him, my voice stilted and firm. I’m just on automatic at this point. Farrow clasps my hand and quickly leads me through the packed restaurant. Towards the men’s bathroom.
Everyone is looking. Filming us.
My eyes are on the bathroom door.
And then hot liquid suddenly splashes my face. “Fuck,” I curse, rubbing the…coffee off my burning cheek and temple. It’s all so damn abrupt that I have no time to think.
People gasp and shout, while others stand up from their chairs, cell phones pointed at me.
Farrow shoves someone back and yells a threat that rings in my ears. I press the bottom of my shirt to my face that’s on fucking fire. Goddammit.
I’m disoriented. Catching shocked expressions. Some people are weirdly smiling while they film this with their phones. I miss sight of the culprit. But all the people recording are getting great footage. Maybe they’re thinking about how much money they can sell it for. How many likes and retweets it’ll get.
I’m walling up.
I’m shutting down.
This is my first date.
“Maximoff,” Farrow says, hand falling back into mine.
I’m not angry. Just numb, and I fall in line with Farrow. Able to open the door to the single bathroom first, and I slip inside. One out-of-order toilet stall, one urinal, and sharpie and pen is scribbled along the chipped maroon walls.
Farrow locks the door behind us. We’re quiet. It’s calmer here.
I touch the stinging burn, and I glance at the mirror. Skin is bright, bright red along my cheekbone, beneath my eye, and beside my temple.
He snatches paper towels out of the dispenser.
“Welcome to my world,” I say dryly.
He glances back at me while he turns on the sink faucet. “I’ve been in your world, wolf scout.” He runs the paper towels beneath cold water, then wrings them out.
“But now you’re in it, in it,” I tell him.
His brows rise, turned to me. “You know I love your fucked-up world. Because you’re ‘in it, in it’.” He uses air-quotes and then presses the cold towel to my cheek and temple.
Our eyes caress for a second, and I breathe deeper. Better.
He shakes his head a couple times, his jaw tightening. “I should’ve been faster.” Meaning, he wishes he jumped out in front of me.
“I’m glad you weren’t.” Because in that alternate universe, he’d be the one with the stinging pain.
He holds my gaze and then frowns at the burn, lifting the soaked paper towel that soothes my skin. “If your new bodyguard is as bad as that one, it’s going to fucking kill me every time I leave you.”
“They won’t be that bad.” My hand glides up his back muscles, and I replay what happened. “About what that guy said—”
“I’m okay, wolf scout.” Farrow holds the wet paper towel to my face again. His perpetual confidence fortifies him and me together. Over and over and over. “You?”
“Yeah.” My hand reaches his neck, about to bring his mouth to mine—a knock pounds on the bathroom door. Our heads turn.
“I need to piss, dude! Hurry up!”
On top of that hollering, Farrow’s phone rings in his pocket. Without taking it out, he drops the call with one click.
And then he kisses me quickly. Like a peck. Not what I want, but he tells me, “Be patient.”