Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
What seems like an hour but in reality is probably less than ten minutes later, Rick comes strolling out of the bar with a look of confusion on his face. It transforms into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes when he sees me near his car.
“Ready?” he asks in that same who-gives-a-shit tone he had when he approached me back in Texas earlier.
I barely manage to keep the growl from bubbling out of my chest, biting my tongue rather than losing my shit on this man right now.
We’ve gotten really good in recent years at not hashing shit out between us.
When we were younger, we’d knock the shit out of each other, wrestle around a little until the person in the wrong gave in or was bleeding, but that’s not an option any longer.
We don’t touch. We haven’t since he reached for me that morning in my bed and I pulled away from him. Smacking him with the back of my hand earlier in the bar was our first touch in over four years.
I rub the back of my hand. Weirdly, just thinking about it makes the warmth I noticed from his chest rejuvenate.
I glare at him, waiting for an apology. It would only be common courtesy, but I don’t get a “sorry, I was chatting with the douchey bartender.”
There’s a challenge in his eyes, and although it’s not the first time I’ve seen it, I refuse to give in. There’s no way to explain me punching his lights out to my dad or his.
I do the only thing I can that won’t have repercussions later. I walk away.
Rick doesn’t follow me, but I never expected him to. He simply starts his car and drives away with all of my stuff in his car. I stand there, grinding my teeth as I watch his taillights disappearing into the night.
That feeling, the same one I’ve gotten after our little altercations, settles inside of me.
I hate the worry that I feel for him, the fear that he left angry and may not make it home safely.
The man doesn’t give a shit about me, so why in the hell do I keep caring if he’s safe or not?
It’s a vicious cycle with him. He doesn’t care that I worry. He isn’t concerned that people care if he’s safe or not.
I grow angrier at the mental acknowledgment that he probably doesn’t even know that I care. We aren’t friends any longer but that hasn’t stopped me from wanting to be. I hate the way things ended up, and it’s gone on for so long it’s not even about blame at this point.
Rick is gone, probably home by now, and I’m still pacing outside of Jake’s.
Having to call my dad to come get me would be just one more open-door opportunity for questions about what’s going on with Rick, so it’s not an option. Walking isn’t an option because home is miles away, and I physically don’t have the energy for it. The car ride back from Texas today was exhausting enough.
The front door of Jake’s swings wide, the opportunity I need presenting itself.
Several guys walk out, one being Harley, and it’s easy to tell that whatever he has going on with the woman I tried flirting with isn’t going well for him. That woman and the guy she was with left earlier. She wasn’t happy and her companion had a look of resolve to him, like he was stuck between a rock and a hard place and wasn’t the least amount happy to be there.
“Hey,” I say to Harley as he files toward one of two black SUVs in the parking lot. “Can I hitch a ride with you guys?”
Harley must not have mentioned Rick and me to the other team members because all of them look at me like a stranger. My nerves settle a little, knowing this fact decreases the chances of any of them mentioning me to my dad.
I’m a grown man and Dad treats me as such, but since graduating from high school, the standing rule is that I’m not allowed in a bar without him or one of the other guys. I could call this a technicality since there were several members inside tonight, but Dad won’t see it that way.
“Sure, kid,” Harley mutters, his words an acceptance but his eyes drifting over the lot as if he expects to find what he’s looking for.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I open the back passenger door of one of the SUVs.
Harley stays lost in his own thoughts on the ride back to the clubhouse, and as if the other guys don’t know what to say to the man, none ask the litany of questions I’m sure is right on the tips of their tongue. Benefiting from Harley’s sorrow doesn’t seem right, but I’ll take the distraction any way I can get it.