Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
It was interesting watching Cinna interact with Joel. It was part annoyed big sister and part concerned mother. Sides of her that I wasn’t sure anyone else got to see.
“Where are you going?” she asked after we placed the order, and Joel hopped up and headed to the door.
“Gotta grab something,” he said, shrugging off her concern, likely not used to having anyone give a shit if he was coming and going.
He came back a few minutes later with a lot of banging outside of the door, prompting Cinna to rip it open, only to find the kid dragging metal folding chairs in.
“Where did you get those?” she asked.
“Basement. Lotta shit down there,” he declared. “Little dirty. But they’ll work. Want me to go get the food?”
“Normally, no,” she said, reaching to pull off her boots. “But my feet are killing me. One sec,” she added, disappearing into her bedroom, then coming back with a stack of cash. “There. Get drinks too. I don’t have anything.”
“Be back,” the kid said, grabbing his new phone before rushing out, excited to have a job. And maybe, in his own way, to pay back Cinna for the gifts, even though neither had mentioned it.
“Ugh,” Cinna said, dropping onto the couch, flexing her sore feet.
I moved to sit next to her, reaching for her legs.
“What are you doing?” she asked, suspicious until she felt my thumbs press into her arch, which made a sound escape her that went right to my dick.
“This isn’t going to lead to anything, you know,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me even as her back arched when both my thumbs pressed into her sole.
“Okay,” I agreed.
“I mean it.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said. “Are you going to keep talking, or do you want to actually relax and enjoy this?”
“I am going to make a list of all the jobs I’ve worked. Go through it one by…” she started saying, breaking off on a little mewling sound.
“You really don’t understand the concept of relaxing, do you?” I asked, pressing into each of her toes, then giving them each a slight tug before moving onto her other foot.
“It’s not my strong suit,” she admitted, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes. It was mostly enjoyment, but there was a little spark there too that I could have stoked into a flame if the kid hadn’t come back with food, muttering about some fight going on at the pizza place, completely oblivious to interrupting something.
Within a few minutes, food was spread across the coffee table, Joel was on the couch, and Cinna and I were on the folding chairs, watching one of Cinna’s home renovation shows until Joel complained his way into Buffy reruns.
Cinna grumbled, but she was clearly just as into it as the kid was. Because, before anyone even realized how much time had passed, we were five episodes deep, and the kid had pulled down the blanket from the back of the couch, and was struggling to stay awake.
Not long after, Cinna quietly got up to start cleaning up the mess from dinner, tiptoeing around her apartment.
“Does he sleep here a lot?” I asked, voice low, as I washed up the mismatched plates. She had exactly two of them, so Cinna herself had eaten off one of the lids of the to-go containers.
“This is only the second time,” she said. “I know I probably shouldn’t let him. But…”
“But it would have been nice if someone had done something like this for you as a kid,” I filled in, understanding.
“Something like that,” she agreed. “I know what it’s like to feel like you’re sleeping with one eye open. I think it’s why he’s so tired when he’s here. He knows he’s safe.”
“You’re good with him,” I said.
“I usually suck with kids. They’re always afraid of me.”
“He’s not really a kid,” I said, shrugging. “No more than we were at his age, anyway.”
“Yeah,” she agreed.
“Besides, I’m sure you’ll be good with kids you know.”
“I’m not having kids,” she said as she put leftovers into the fridge. “I can’t, actually, even if I wanted them. Which I don’t.”
“I’m not having kids either,” I admitted, realizing I’d never actually said that out loud before.
“Really?” she asked, watching me with her head tipped to the side.
“Really. These fucked-up genes end with me. Hasn’t been a normal person in my bloodline in generations.”
“You’re normal,” she said. Then, at my raised brows, I saw her remember the times when the mask slipped, when the darker side of me came out. “I mean… normal for a mafia capo, anyway.”
“I got snipped at nineteen. I’ve never regretted it,” I said, shrugging. “I can enjoy everyone else’s kids. Then go home and get a good night of sleep.”
“I’m a fucking nightmare when I’m sick. The idea of having to take care of a needy, crying kid when I’m feeling like shit…” she said, shaking her head.