Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Understatement.
“You too, Moffy.” Jack grabs the long skateboard off the ground and begins squeezing through the crowded stairs.
“Thought you didn’t want us calling you Moffy as a nickname?” Donnelly questions.
Farrow raises his brows at Maximoff.
“Jack is different,” he explains, leash in hand. He already put Arkham down, and the puppy drinks from a communal water bowl. Dogs allowed here.
I chime in, “Meaning, Jack is production.” I almost add, I’d give him special privileges too. My eyes never leave Highland as he pushes through the masses, coming onto the deck.
He reaches us, and I have to restrain myself from greeting him with a hug. A kiss. Especially as his glittering honey-brown eyes graze over mine, and his lips rise in an even stronger smile.
“You’re just waiting?” Jack asks everyone.
“And dreaming of a wiz steak with onions.” Donnelly sips Lightning Bolt! from the same hand that has his cigarette pinched between his fingers. “Been wondering why we’re here, though. Better ones are in South Philly.”
Jack glows, his grin blinding. “Someone told me they’re better here.”
“Who?” Donnelly barks.
“Me.”
Donnelly shoots me a look and then points to me with his can/cigarette hand. “Sustained.”
Farrow and I share a look. “What the fuck,” I say into a laugh.
“When did Donnelly go to law school?” Farrow banters, his smile stretching. “Not a good one either.”
Donnelly blows a middle-finger kiss. “Xander’s been watching a bunch of Law & Order.”
We move up the line and pass through the opened double-doors. The counter and overhang menu come into view.
My arm brushes against Jack’s, and his fingers slip lightly along mine. I’m caging breath, and he’s breathing hard. The story of our lives.
Donnelly suddenly pats his pockets. “You know what. I’m not that hungry. Later.” He pats Farrow’s back and my back, then shoulders his way out of the restaurant. It happens so quickly—I’m still trying to detach from Jack Highland’s mesmeric aura.
“What the hell was that?” Farrow asks me.
“He didn’t have money,” I realize. “Fuck.”
We all start heading backwards through the opened doors, and instinctively, I reach and clasp Jack’s hand. So he’ll follow.
We’re not a couple.
I drop it immediately.
He’s not even out.
Fuckfuckfuck.
Our eyes catch, and apologies ring in mine.
He mouths, it’s alright. And he pushes my back lightly, encouraging me to keep chasing after my friend.
Okay.
Okay.
Outside on the deck, I quickly see two exits: the stairs or the railing. The stairs are jam-packed, and so without stopping, I hurdle the railing and land softly on the sidewalk below.
Farrow has to take the stairs, strapped with a baby and on-duty.
I survey the congested street and squint in the setting sun. Rush-hour traffic, cars honk loudly, and there’s no fucking sign of Donnelly.
I even jog down the sidewalk and glance along the alleyways.
Pulse thrashed, I pull out my cell and speed-dial his number. Pressing it to my ear, I growl out, “Pick up, you motherfucker.”
Farrow, Maximoff, and Jack reach the curb where I’m walking and redialing my friend.
“No answer?” Farrow asks.
“He’s in trouble, bro.”
Farrow combs a hand through his bleach-white hair. “I don’t know how to fucking help if he keeps pushing us away.”
I don’t either.
It scares me.
Jack drops his longboard and kicks off next to me. “Could he have just forgotten his wallet?”
“He would’ve asked us to cover him,” I say as we reroute and walk back to Woody’s. “This has to be about what he did…” I trail off. Everyone’s eyes fall to Ripley against Farrow’s chest.
We lower our voices and stop on the curb as paparazzi sprint toward us.
“If he’s giving Scottie money in prison,” Maximoff says, “I can pay Donnelly back—”
“He won’t accept it, Hale. We’re all a bunch of prideful idiots.”
Farrow wipes a hand down the side of his face. “Shit.”
Yeah.
Shit.
We can’t do anything. Our friend is going to continue down whatever path he’s carved out for himself.
“Chances are he’s headed back to his apartment,” I tell them, shoving my phone in my pocket.
Farrow nods. “Let’s grab food, and I’ll bring him back a cheesesteak.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Paparazzi follow Maximoff and Farrow as they head towards the wooden stairs and crowds. Strung multi-colored bulbs suddenly switch-on along Woody’s deck, the sun nearly disappeared.
I can’t help but focus on how Maximoff wraps an arm around his husband’s shoulders. How they cave into one another and talk quietly.
A pang returns to my chest.
“You okay?” Jack rolls up beside me. Stepping off the longboard, he keeps a foot on the top so it won’t slide down the sidewalk.
I glance back one more time at my best friend. His husband. Baby. And puppy.
I shouldn’t feel alone with Jack standing right here. But air separates us. Distance. An unbearable ache that we’re both struggling to close.
As soon as I look back at Highland, I realize he’s not bright and sunny. He shifts, takes a sharp breath, a hand resting on his tensed neck.