Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“You don’t know shit,” he growls, letting me go to cling to the railing.
I don’t know much, but I know you’re a jerk, I think, but I keep my mouth shut. I just need to get him to his room, and then I can be done with him and go to bed.
With a deep breath, I get him up the rest of the stairs and make sure he doesn’t fall over the black wrought-iron railing that runs along the balcony in front of our rooms. When we reach his door, I take the key from him and open it.
He stumbles toward the bathroom while I flip on the light, and then I stand in the doorway and listen to him start to heave.
I should leave and let him sort himself out, but my stupid conscience gets the better of me. Closing the door, I walk across the room that is the same size and setup as mine. A dresser and a single chair, the queen bed still made. A suitcase is open on the floor, everything folded neatly inside, with a pair of worn sneakers next to it, and there’s some cash and papers on the nightstand.
Entering the bathroom, I’m greeted with the familiar smell of vomit, and I find him on his knees in front of the toilet. I grab one of the washcloths still folded on the stack of towels I put in the room yesterday when I cleaned and turn on the tap. When it’s soaked, I wring it out and place it on the back of his neck.
“Why the fuck are you still here?” He doesn’t even try to lift his head. With how drunk he is, he probably can’t without everything spinning out of control.
“That’s the million-dollar question.” I sigh. “Do you want to try to stand?”
“No.”
“Okay.” I move around him and take a seat on the edge of the bathtub to wait. My feet and back ache from cleaning and standing all day.
“Just go away,” he groans before getting sick again.
“I will.” My fingers itch with the urge to rub his back and offer some comfort. After a few minutes pass and he hasn’t gotten sick again, I flush the toilet, then get up and walk into his room. I know I shouldn’t go through his things, but I still dig into his suitcase for his leather shower bag with the initials RDK branded into it and take it with me back into the bathroom.
“Hey.” I remove the cloth from his neck, and he lifts his head.
“You’re still fucking here?”
“I am.” I instinctively start to wipe his face, and he jerks his head back. “Sorry, old habits die hard. Let’s get you up.” I wrap my elbow through his and tug upward.
With a dazed look in his eyes, he gets to his feet, and I keep hold of him until he’s in front of the sink and able to lean against it to stay standing. I take out his toothbrush and load it up with toothpaste. He takes it from me and starts brushing while I rest my shoulder against the doorjamb and watch.
“I’m good. You can go,” he tells me, shutting off the water—or attempting to. He misses the faucet handle twice before I turn it off myself.
Ignoring his glare when he turns toward me, I catch him when he endeavors to take a step and stumbles. God, he’s heavy, but it doesn’t feel like he has an ounce of fat on his body. Thankfully, the bed isn’t very far, so I’m able to get him to it. He falls back on the mattress with the help of gravity, but it takes some maneuvering to get him adjusted on the bed so that his head is on the pillow.
Standing back, I look down at him and find he’s asleep. Even a mess, he’s breathtakingly handsome.
With a deep breath, I untie his boots and pull them off, then go to the small closet in the room to grab the blanket folded on the top shelf. The wind from the blanket as I toss it over him catches the cash and papers on his nightstand, sending them flying.
Quickly, before he wakes and thinks I’m robbing him, I pick up his money and put it back where it was. When I do one last scan of the floor, my gaze catches on a piece of paper tucked half under the edge of the bed. I bend to pick it up and put it with the rest of his stuff but stop when I realize it’s a newspaper clipping of an obituary.
I glance at the bed to make sure he’s still out before I allow my eyes to scan over the simple wordage that is so different from the obituary I spent weeks writing for my mom.
Valentino Santino King, age 23, of Manhattan, New York, died Tuesday, leaving behind his parents, Ricardo Luca King and Francesca Sofia King, along with his brother, Roman Dante King, and his two sisters, Sofia Zia King and Lucia Amara King.