Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Every time I see my bank account, I immediately transported back in time to when I was that penniless eighteen-year-old struggling to scrounge up enough cash for a goddamn Christmas present.
I loathe that fucking feeling
I fucking loathe that I can’t usually afford our dates or dinners.
I fucking loathe even more I can’t buy her nice gifts like jewelry or do little thoughtful things like send her roses.
The most I can typically do after rent, bills, groceries, and gas is get her a cheap ass zebra stuffed animal, which have now become displays in her townhome.
Looks like a fucking zoo with the random places she puts them.
Yet…I love it.
It’s as if she wants to be surrounded by them no matter what room she’s in.
And it would be nice.
Seeing Pres close the door to lock it has me rushing to end the conversation. “And all I have to do is call Law?”
“And take his advice,” Noah emphasizes.
“How will you know the call has been made?”
“He checks in with me weekly,” my brother admits to my surprise. “I’ll ask.”
“Fine.”
Noah instantly lets out another sigh.
“Gotta go. We’re headed to the gym.”
“Tell Pres hey.”
Some muttered version of goodbye slips out of my mouth right before she opens the door.
I end the call, drop the device in the cup holder, and coo, “Hey you.”
“Hi you!” She settles into the front seat of my car, gym purse wedged between her legs.
“Couldn’t find your phone, could you?”
My playful teasing gets a good-natured glare.
“It was on the kitchen counter beside the very empty box of Special K.”
“If you knew that, why didn’t you tell me?!”
“You didn’t ask.”
Her face sassily scrunches.
She doesn’t ask me for help.
It’s rare.
Really goddamn rare.
And I tell myself it’s her not asking anyone for help, but I don’t know that that’s true.
I want it to be true.
Fuck, I desperately need her to be that stubborn with everyone and not just me.
I need to know it’s not just me she keeps at distance in that department.
Sure, there’s been some small improvements. She lets me do all the cooking now, some of the laundry, and even take the trash out, but for other shit, it’s like trying to talk someone into getting their car checked out when they’ve never had work done on it since they bought it. I can respect her refusal for letting me chip in cash I don’t have; however, her putting up a fight for me to handle her car shit – oil changes, alignments, fucking detailing it – is ridiculous.
Especially given that I work at a fucking shop!
“Speaking of empty cereal boxes, we gotta stop at the grocery store on the way home.”
Fuck, I can’t wait for this place or any place to truly be our home.
“You need groceries, too?”
“What do you mean too? You and Merrick out of food again?”
Slowly nodding is done as I back up out of the driveaway. “Some fucking how, we’re almost out of basic shit again, even though I was only there one night this week.” Putting my car into drive, I casually add, “It’s all good, though. McCoy covers my ass when I can’t so, it’s only right I do the same so to speak.”
Pres’s hand lands lovingly on my thigh. “We’ll grab stuff for both places. No biggie.”
She’s instantly shot a sweet wink.
“So…” she nonchalantly begins, “who were you on the phone with?”
“Noah.”
“Anything…important?”
Her fishing expedition has me gripping the steering wheel tightly as an unfortunate familiar tingling tickles my tongue.
Fuck, I would kill for a smoke.
Cigarette or weed.
Just the tiniest fucking taste would make all this shit easier to deal with.
I know Pres isn’t asking because she thinks I’m holding shit back from her. I know she just wants to be supportive and there for me and prove she can handle whatever the fuck it is being thrown our direction, but it’s hard to not feel like there’s still a fucking issue of trust.
Which I don’t need.
Right as we arrive at the gate to exit, I cut her a glance. To my surprise, she’s holding a raised toothpick for the offering along with a small smile. “This one’s Smack in Your Face Sour Apple.”
My eyebrows lift at the same time the gate slowly opens for us. “They have more flavors than peppermint?”
“Yeah! I ordered this fun ‘flavor pack’ last week for you, and it just came in yesterday. There’s this one, Orange You Glad It Isn’t Banana?, Go Grape or Go Home, and Pop That Cherry.”
I take the toothpick between chuckles. “Those are some fucking names, baby.”
“Right?” She giggles in amusement. “They’re worth buying for that alone.”
The small soothing object is slid into my mouth, mollifying the need for something else almost instant. Once the flavors are given a chance to conquer my entire pallet, I sigh, “Thanks, Pres.”
“No thanks needed, babe.”
One more adoring stare is given prior to me accelerating out of the gated portion of her neighborhood.