Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
He slips the pen out from behind his ear. “It’s up to you.”
And this is the part of the story where I recognize that Paul Donnelly does not care if harm comes to him. Either he believes he’s strong enough to defeat any evil, like most bodyguards would, or he does not value his life as much as he values the life of others.
In both circumstances, he is a good bean.
I’ve liked him as a person ever since we talked on the tour bus, late at night on Christmas Eve, and he sketched what would be my first tattoo.
Today, I think I like him even more.
“I’m still sorry about my dad,” I say, meaning it. “He is my dad, so I guess I feel the need to apologize on his behalf.” I curl a piece of hair behind my ear. “Sometimes, I think he wishes he were Professor X just so he could use Cerebro to keep tabs on me.”
Donnelly is a bodyguard.
Security would love Cerebro.
Donnelly nods like he gets the reference. Maybe he does. He’s into some fandoms. I’m not exactly sure which ones, but he did talk a little about Marvel on the tour bus. Then he says, “Makes sense.”
“Because I’m famous,” I realize.
“’Cause he loves you.” He pulls out reading glasses from his pocket. “I’d tap into Cerebro for the people I love too.”
My pancake flip-flopping heart has grown, unearthly reader. “And for the aliens, to see what they’re up to.”
“You’re the one with the alien connections. You gotta hook me up.”
“Galactic space channels are complex. But I do think you have what it takes to make contact.”
Donnelly leans back a little bit. “Question is whether they want me.”
“That’s the question I ask all the time. What if they refuse to answer my call when I make contact?”
“Sounds like they’d be the dumber species rejecting someone like you and me.”
I grin. “Totally.”
“Totes,” he banters, flashing a rock on hand gesture, his lips inching higher, then he asks, “You sure you wanna go ahead with this?”
“Close the exit hatch.”
Donnelly smirks. “Been closed on my end.”
“Secured on mine. The tattoo is a go,” I nod resolutely, wishing I could peek at his sketchbook. He holds the pages upright so I only spy the worn blue cover.
He curls the sketchbook. He must’ve found the page, but his blue eyes flicker to the colored pencils stacked in the tin. “You draw?”
“Not really. I tried,” I admit. “I wanted to first show you an idea of the design I have in mind, but I couldn’t sketch anything worth showing.”
“Can I see them?”
My drawings? “They’re in the dumpster outside.”
His forehead creases like that’s a sad place for them, but he just nods. “I only have one sketch. I can make changes to it. It’s just a starting point, so don’t be afraid to tell me what you think.”
“Okay.” I bow closer, brushing against his arm to obtain a better look.
Donnelly reveals the page, but my gaze catches the black writing around his wrist, his tattoo that I first saw on the tour bus.
win some lose some is inked in small letters.
And then the design in the sketchbook stuns me silent. Thin black lines travel in curves around spheres of all shapes and dimensions, some ringed like Saturn. Others are comets and stars. Lines connect and twist in a magical geometry so I can easily color in different sections of space and fill in the planets.
“I…” I try not to cry. Forcing back tears that well, I whisper to him, “I love it.”
Donnelly sweeps my reaction. “Changes?”
“More stars, that’s all.”
“More stars comin’ up.” He lowers the sketchbook to his lap, uncaps the pen with his teeth, and tweaks the design with pen. Not even pencil.
Permanent corrections that he can’t take back.
I’m hypnotized in how the tip of his pen moves effortlessly over the paper. “You still want this on your thigh?” He casts a brief glimpse at my bare leg.
“Yeah, right here.” While I’m leaning on the desk, I motion to my thigh and lift a portion of my shorts, showing him the side of my butt. “Then down to my kneecap. I think it’s an easy enough place to color when I’m sitting.”
“It’ll look dope.” The pen cap is still between his teeth, but I hear him clearly. His pen scurries swiftly over the galaxy, adding tiny prominent stars, all outlines that could come to life with color.
With a rip of the paper, Donnelly rests the sketch against my thigh. “You want it bigger?”
“Bigger,” I nod.
“I’ll add another…half sheet.” He measures with his fingers. His index skims the tender flesh of my knee, the warmth of his skin tingling my whole body. Like I’ve never been touched before. Even though I have, plenty of times.
Why is his touch so different?
He’s focused and flips to a new page in his sketchbook. He draws on the top-half. His pen whirls and zooms, creating planets and asteroids and ten-pointed stars.