Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
The hair on my arms rises, hearing the jealousy in his tone.
I lift my eyes again, seeing that Macon is looking at me. She talks, but he stares at me now.
I stand up, turning to the guys. “Ready to order?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t know what to say to Army about Macon, but I know it’s going to take me more than two seconds to figure out. I don’t have time to think right now.
“We already did,” Dallas tells me. “We’re getting it to go and taking it into the bar.”
The bar …
I blink and twist away, grabbing someone’s empty glass and making my way to the counter.
I stop next to Macon as I reach over the counter and pull up the soda gun. I start to refill the drink.
“I don’t think you should drink tonight,” I say as quietly as possible. “Or be having relations with women right now.”
He leans down on the counter again, lifting his cup to his mouth. His jaw flexes. “Relations …”
“You know what I mean.”
I’m not even sure what I mean. Do I mean a relationship, or just sex? I think about it for a second, picturing him on a date. Or taking someone to bed. I don’t like either.
I try to soften my tone. “I just mean that instant gratification behavior does more harm than good. It’s just a Band-Aid over the real problem.”
“I wasn’t going to fuck her, Krisjen.”
My stomach drops a little, like it does every time he says my name.
“Tonight anyway,” he adds, turning to me. “And I’ll be thirty-two in January. I don’t need relationship advice from a teenager.”
I lock my jaw, a lump stuck in my throat. My eyes burn.
A teenager? Is that how he sees me?
I care about him. Does that mean anything to him?
“Just fucking relax,” he says under his breath. “I’m not hanging myself today.”
My chest caves, my face cracking, and I don’t want him to see. I bolt, walking as fast as I can into the kitchen, behind the dishwasher, and press my hands into the cool steel of the countertop. Mariette and the guys work up front, unfazed.
Macon charges into my secluded nook, and I whip around, facing him.
“Don’t fucking do that,” he says. “You’re mad? Then hit me. I’m not made of glass. You can hit me!”
I glimpse the cooks through the small space between the ovens, seeing them look over, but Macon doesn’t seem to care who hears.
“I don’t want to hit you,” I say.
He closes the distance between us, and I suck in a breath as he grabs me underneath my arms and plops my ass down on the counter. He comes in close, one hand on the microwave behind my head.
“You want to take care of me?” he taunts. “Bring me soup and let me cry on your shoulder like someone who’s not a man?”
“That doesn’t make you less of a man!” I whisper-yell. “I just don’t want …”
I trail off. I don’t know how to say it.
“I don’t want …”
“What?” he barks.
“I don’t … I …” I stammer.
“What?” He bares his teeth, pushing away from me. “I don’t know how to do this. What do you want from me?”
“I just don’t want you to leave,” I burst out.
He’s trying to act in a way he thinks normal people do. Drinking, working, sex, because he still can’t let them know that he’s in pain.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.” I search his eyes. “You don’t want her. You don’t want to fuck around in that bar all night.”
Maybe ten years ago, but not anymore.
He inches toward me again, his expression pained. “You don’t know what I want,” he whispers, swallowing hard. “Krisjen, I can’t tell you the things I think about sometimes.”
My chin trembles. I’m scared.
But I do know him.
Taking him by the back of the neck, I draw him in, his eyes cast down and refusing to look at me.
“There are so many people who I don’t see,” I tell him. “My mom and dad. Milo. Trace. No matter how I try to slow down and see them, I can’t.” I take a washcloth off the rack and run the cold water over it, wringing out the excess. “I keep reaching for something I know is there, but I can’t grab it. Like they’re not real. No different than any stranger passing me by, and I just keep walking.”
I place the ice-cold cloth on the back of his neck, feeling him exhale.
“But I see you. Even when I close my eyes, I see you.”
He looks up at me, and I jerk my chin to the restaurant and Bay beyond us. “You take care of them,” I tell him. “I take care of you. End of story.”
He holds my gaze for several seconds, finally closing his eyes and leaning in. Pressing a hand into the microwave behind me again, and the other on the counter at my side, he almost brushes my nose with his. His warm breath falls across my lips.