Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“Just some fists.”
“Of course I’ve always got room for you, Griff.” He clucks his tongue. “Can’t find guys who work as hard as you do and are actually good at the job.”
“Thanks.” Shit, I really don’t want to ask him for more time off but the longer I wait, the worse it’ll be. “Uh, I may still need a few more days off. I have to go back to film a reunion show.”
The Vegas fight isn’t anywhere near a sure thing, yet. So, I’ll keep that to myself for now.
“I figured.” He shrugs. “Just let me know when. Thinking of spending my winter in Florida if you think you can handle things around here?”
“Me?” My eyes widen. “Yeah. Absolutely.”
“All right. We’ll talk when it’s time. I haven’t decided yet. Looks like you need to spend some time recovering anyway.” He waves a hand at me. “Go have a look at the car.”
I nod at him and exit through the front door, circling around the building to avoid the open garage doors. No reason to talk to anyone else now. The back lot’s clear and I make a beeline for the building where I stored Molly’s car.
I unlock the door and roll it up. Weak sunlight spilling in from the open door illuminates the space. Remy and Eraser cleaned what they could. No glass crunches under my feet. The garage floor’s spotless.
A cardboard box sits on the floor. I squat down and carefully pick through the contents. The casing of the side mirrors Molly and I installed right before I left. The glass is long gone. A door handle. A metal piece from a headlight.
I turn and look at the car. Fuck. The passenger window’s gone. The images from the episode replay in my head. Just as I bet they did for Molly each time she smashed the bat into the car. Door dented. A small crack in the windshield. Both headlights gone. Anger at the show’s producers for engineering such a stupid “plotline” for the show boils my blood. For what? Ratings? Molly was the only one who was going to be hurt by that. She was innocent—why do it? So much pain caused for no fucking reason.
I continue circling the car. Back windows are intact. Actually, nothing from beyond the front doors has been touched.
All right. Okay. I can work with this. It’s not too bad. Better than I expected, honestly.
Shit. The damage was probably contained to the front of the car because Molly hurt herself smashing it up. Going at the car with the aluminum bat probably seemed like a good idea, right until she hit something solid with it. Didn’t Remy say she hurt her arms or got scratched? She’s lucky glass didn’t get her in the eye or face.
I make a list of the parts I’ll need to order. Glass will be a bitch. That’ll take the longest to get my hands on. But there’s a good chance I can have it ready to give to Molly for Christmas.
Wait. Should I even bother giving her the car again? What if every time she looks at it, she’s reminded of “seeing” me “cheat” on her? What if it brings up all those awful feelings? I don’t want to give her something that makes her unhappy every time she sees it. Besides, Remy said he ended up buying her a car for school. Something small with all-wheel drive. She doesn’t need this anymore.
I glance at the Malibu again. Do I want to work on it, if it’s not for Molly? Even with the damage she did, it’s in better shape than when I bought it. If I want to turn a profit, though, I should fix it. Or maybe I’ll sell my car. I can put both of them up like some two-for-one sale.
It’s just a car. Molly and I will own dozens of them over our lifetime.
But it still feels like one more thing the show stole from us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Molly
The following weekend, I’ve had all I can take of the skunky aroma of cheap weed. I’m eager to get away from the dorms and have some peace and quiet at home.
Remy’s truck isn’t here, so I pull my car as close as I can to the back porch.
Home sweet home.
I haul my backpack over my shoulders and drag my five-foot, blob-shaped bag of laundry out of the cargo area. It lands on the grass with a splunk. With some effort, I pick up the bag with both hands and waddle up the porch steps with it.
I fish my keys out of my hoodie pocket and find the one for the back door.
The door swings open before I have a chance to slide the key in.
My gaze lands on Griff.
No, on Griff’s shirtless chest.
The loose track pants slung low on his hips.