Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Oscar and Donnelly are chatting about the best bachelor party locations. So they’re definitely not eavesdropping.
“Did I ask them,” I repeat and suck in a breath. “Not yet.”
Wrinkles line his forehead. “Christ, really. Aren’t you the one who invented the Band-Aid method?”
I shake my head with a smile. “Did not invent that, no.” I prop my elbow on his shoulder, our mouths a breath apart. “This is harder than I anticipated.”
He stares at my lips. “Nothing’s hard for you.” His brows knit. “Except”—his eyes fall to my cock—“you know, whenever you’re around me.”
I raise my brows. “Because I carry a constant hard-on throughout the entire day.”
“So you’re admitting it.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I said, smartass.” I lean back, and he fists my shirt again, drawing me nearer. I smile and slide my plate of breakfast closer to Maximoff.
“But seriously, Farrow…” His voices drifts off for a second. He watches my hands as I fuck around and slide raspberries on my fingertips.
I almost laugh. He’s too easy.
He glares, but he’s grinding back a smile. “Fuck.” He rolls his stiff neck, then whispers to me, “I didn’t realize that this would be a big deal for you.”
“I’m trying not to make my friendships complicated.” I stare at him and suck a raspberry off my fingertip. “I like uncomplicated.”
He’s hooked to my movements. But he manages to say strongly, “I’m complicated. You like me.”
“I love you,” I correct him and eat the raspberry off my pinky.
He nods.
“It’s just hard,” I say again. Maximoff is right. He’s a complicated guy living in a complicated world, and I enjoy every chaotic, high-speed second. I don’t understand why I’m nervous to complicate my friendships.
But I’m sure one of his favorite philosophers is telling him the answer. He stares into me. “I can help you.”
I know you can. But it’s not just ripping the Band-Aid. It’s what comes after. So I whisper, “Another time. Later.”
He nods again, his steadfast demeanor a comfort.
“Hale,” Oscar calls. “Vegas?”
Donnelly pipes in, “Yea or nay?”
Regardless of who’s the best man, all the guys on SFO want to plan my bachelor party together.
I stay close to Maximoff, his hand in mine, and with his free hand, Maximoff grabs a piece of bacon off my plate. “You guys can do Vegas for Farrow’s bachelor party. But mine has to be better suited for my family that’s under-twenty-one.”
“No Vegas then.” Oscar tosses that out. “We all want both parties in the same city.”
Maximoff looks between us. “Jesus, you guys are that worried about the temps?”
“They’re green,” I remind him.
“They’re bound to make some motherfucking mistakes in the beginning.” Oscar eats egg and biscuit off his fork as the door blows open.
A trail of famous ones and bodyguards fill the store. Jack Highland, the exec producer of the docuseries, greets Akara with a bro-hug. I catch Oscar eyeing Jack in a way that concerns me, as his friend.
He turns forward, eyes on me.
I give him a look. “Be careful.” Jack has said he’s straight, and there’s no faster way to a broken heart than crushing on a straight, unattainable guy. If Oscar wants to go that route, he knows I’ll be here for him, but fuck, I hope he doesn’t test that.
Oscar nods several times. “I know, Redford.”
Quicksilver & Tattoos—that’s what the production team titled Episode 1 of the new season. Eh, it’s fine. Could be better; they could’ve gone with Wolf Scout & Yale Asshole.
Maximoff would’ve liked that more.
Everyone hangs out in the loft of Superheroes & Scones with plates of breakfast foods, eyes pinned to the mounted televisions. I remember the interviews I had and film dates. It was fun spending that time with Maximoff, and it actually felt good to share my side of the story that the media has warped.
My friends don’t get that same chance.
Most of the footage is from May before the car crash. When we just started to date in public. Maximoff’s dad and uncle are running through a wooded state park for exercise.
They slow.
And Lo stakes a sharp look up at the sky. “There’s something wrong with me.”
His words suction oxygen out of the loft.
“What do you fucking mean?” Ryke asks, wiping sweat off his forehead.
“He’s in love with him,” Lo retorts. “Farrow is in love with my son.”
It sucker-punches my gut. That he could tell at that point in time. Hell, that he’d even acknowledge this out loud. Lounging next to me on a beanbag, Maximoff slides his hand in mine.
“You know Moffy is really fucking in love with him too?”
“I had no clue,” he says dryly.
Ryke outstretches his arms. “Then what’s the fucking problem, Lo? There’s nothing wrong with you—”
“There is. I’m telling you there is,” Lo sneers with a frustrated groan. “You know what I thought when I realized my son and his boyfriend love each other? I thought, thank God. Because when I fuck up again, Moffy will have Farrow. It took me a full five goddamn minutes to even think, wow, I’m happy that my son found love. You know what that makes me?”