Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Just fucking shut up and drive,” Jude demands.
As soon as the truck starts moving, I feel myself drifting. I’ve hit the figurative wall, and I need to pass out. I lay down across the back seat, and let my eyes close. I can hear the low rumble of Jude’s voice as he talks to Rich, and some country music playing through the radio. The last thing I hear before I pass out is Jude calling my name.
“Tor.” I shake her, but she’s passed out cold.
“You want me to carry her?” Richard asks.
“No!” I’m too quick with that reply, but I don’t want him touching her. “No, just go. I’ve got this.” He’s a fucking idiot and would probably come in his pants if her tits rubbed over his shoulder the right way.
He shrugs and turns around, heading to the house. I drag Tor across the back seat by her ankles. She’s like a rag doll. Her limbs sway as I scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder to carry her inside the house.
What in the hell am I doing? I take the stairs two at a time until I reach my bedroom. I open the door and throw her unconscious form on the bed.
She groans as her head rolls to the side. “Jude?” she mumbles, her brows pinching together as she squints at me.
I fucking love the way she says my name. I swallow. I shouldn’t have this soft spot for her. I shouldn’t be thinking the things I am. “Yeah?” I sigh.
“Where am I?” She presses her palm to her forehead. “Oh, God, the room is spinning.”
“And of course you’re gonna vomit, right? Only makes sense.” I sit her up, draping her arm over my shoulder as I help her up and cart her dead weight into the bathroom. I flip the light switch and she grumbles. Using her hand, she shields her eyes from the harsh light as I plop her onto the floor in front of the toilet.
“Oh, God,” she moans, resting her forehead against the toilet seat. “Why did you let me drink that much?”
“Let you?” I shake my head, starting to argue with her, but why bother? “Fuck, woman, you were necking tequila like it was a damn sport.”
“Fuck you,” she grumbles.
“If you throw up, then no fucking thank you.” I smile. Jesus, she’s a damn mess.
“Oh, God. I feel so ill.” Her knuckles grip the edge of the toilet so violently they turn white.
I hear her sniffle. What the...is she crying? I angle my head to look at her. Her face is scrunched up, eyes closed, lip quivering. She’s fucking crying; she hasn’t even been sick yet...and she’s crying.
“Why the hell are you crying?” I try not to laugh, but honestly, this shit’s funny.
“Shut up. I hate being sick, okay?” Her entire body shakes and her shoulders lurch forward as she heaves.
I lean against the wall and watch her, not exactly sure whether to leave her or stay. After a few moments of retching, she stops, and resumes crying. When she dry heaves again, she dramatically throws herself over the toilet and her hair falls in her face. I roll my eyes, huffing as I step toward her.
“Jesus.” I squat down as I pick the sticky, damp hair off her cheek and wrap the rest of her loose hair around my wrist in an attempt to keep it out of the way. “You don’t make anything easy, do you?”
“Just—” She heaves again. “Just leave,” she pants between deep breaths. She tries to push me away, but her movements are weak. Her face is still practically in the toilet.
“If I leave, you’ll probably drown.”
“Oh, God. I think I’m dying!” She wails, tears streaking her face.
I plop down on the floor and stare at her in amusement. Is this how all fucking woman are? Dear God. They’re fucking insane. “You are not dying. Chill the fuck out.”
“I am fucking dying!”
I rub my temples. She gets nearly gutted, and this—vomiting from one too many tequila shots—has her in tears and fearing death is imminent? “You’re not fucking dying, not yet, at least,” I groan. “What kind of fucking doctor were you? Jesus. Since when has tequila been a fucking death sentence?”
Her face doesn’t budge from the toilet, but she does wave her middle finger at me. “What would you know?” She spits into the toilet a few times. “You’re a cunt!” Her voice echoes from the bowl.
I laugh. That word on her prissy British lips turns me on every damn time.
She sits back on her heels and snatches her hair away from me.
“You done?” I raise a brow at her, tapping my fingers over the floor. She looks like shit glaring at me with bloodshot eyes.
“Come on. Up.” I pick her up and flush the toilet before walking her to the sink. I turn the water on and point to the basin. She’s stumbling around like she’s about to fall over. “You gonna wash the puke off your face or what?” I ask.