Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“Let’s talk about this lumberjack look you’ve got going.” Jax rubs his palm on my cheek, and I swat him away. “What’s up with the beard, Rye-Rye?”
“Just felt like growing one.” Not the truth, but it’s yet another thing I don’t want to talk about. When the hell did hanging out with my best friends become something I’d rather avoid? It doesn’t sit right with me. But I can’t shake the feeling.
“It’s definitely a look.” Killian eyes my growing beard. “A little scraggly, though.”
“Are we going to start giving one another grooming tips now?” I ask while putting my gear into my bag. I need to get out of here. Be alone until I calm down.
“You’d have to actually groom yourself once in a while for me to give you tips, big guy.” Killian’s smile is wide and easy. He’s pretty much relaxed and happy all the time now. Which is great for him; he’s getting laid on the regular by someone he loves. Clearly, it works.
Is that what Brenna meant? That she needed to find the kind of contentment Killian and Jax found with their women? Does sex with someone you care about make so much of a difference? On paper, yeah. Of course, I can understand the logic. But I can’t make the leap into truly believing it. Sex is physical. I know intuitively that it would be better with Brenna, because I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone.
Brenna never mentioned love. We don’t love each other. But I do care. I’ve always cared about her. How can I not? Officially, she’s the band’s public relations manager, but the truth is, she’s as much a part of the band as any of us. We’ve gone from obscurity to fame together. She’s witnessed the blood, sweat, and tears—hell, not witnessed, she’s experienced them. Brenna and I can bicker like spoiled brats, but I would do anything for her. All this time, I thought she understood that. Sour regret fills my stomach when I think about how much my actions upset her. I feel like a bonehead, an asshole. I want to make it up to her, to prove I’m one hundred percent on her side.
What if she agrees to give it a try with me and quickly realizes that it’s not going to fill the void in her life? What the fuck do I do then? Because Brenna isn’t one to keep on with something that’s not making her happy. She’ll drop me faster than I can zip my pants up. And shit will get awkward. Fast.
“You’re zoning out again,” Whip says near my ear.
The guys are all looking at me with varying levels of amusement.
Shit. I shouldn’t have gone out today.
“I’m in a funk. No big deal.”
I hate the silence that follows. It presses in on my skin and chokes me.
“Well,” Jax finally says, drawing out the word like he’s struggling to find a topic that will break the awkward-ass tension I’ve dropped on them. “Let’s play ball, then.”
Good. Great. Anything is better than all this talking.
I move to grab the ball at my feet. And it happens. My hand seizes up, curling into a claw as white-hot pain shoots from the tips of my fingers up to my shoulder. I go absolutely rigid. The pain is so intense, I can’t move. All I can do is work through it with slow, agonized breaths. No one has seen; it’s only been a few seconds. But it feels like an eternity.
Casually, as I can, I grab my bag with my good hand and stand upright. Jesus wept, it hurts. Like a molten poker under my skin. “I’m gonna go.” I’m sweating. I know I am. My voice is clipped and tight.
The guys start to protest, but I’m already backing away. Need to get the fuck out of here. Now. I feel ill. Dizzy.
Panic attack. Jax has them. He’d empathize. He’d help. He’d ask questions I don’t want to answer.
Panting, I jog off the court. My hand is still curled into a painful claw.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
By the time I get a cab and collapse in the back of it with a sigh, my head spins with pain and fear. Slowly, with the cautiousness of a ninety-year-old, I stretch my fingers, wincing at the lingering soreness. I move my index finger the wrong way and wince.
As soon as I get home, I’ll ice my hand, then follow that with an ointment rub. I could take pain meds, but they don’t fix anything, only mask it.
Tears smart my eyes, the city a blur outside the grimy cab window. I’m surrounded by millions of people, and I’ve never felt more alone. Cold. Empty. And afraid. Because it’s not getting better. It’s getting worse.
Brenna
A sob rips out of me, and I lurch upright in bed, tears rolling down my face. I can’t stop crying. Even as I wipe my cheeks and try to calm my breathing, the utter fear and sorrow won’t abate. Rocking myself in the dark, I cry and cry until my chest hurts and my eyes swell. I don’t need to glance at my phone to know the time. It’s always the same when this happens—4:32 a.m., the very moment I got the call from Killian telling me about Jax, how we almost lost him.