Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
It's reasonable, but I don't like it. "Does he water your cacti?"
"He probably drowned them." She shakes her head.
A memory fills my mind—the summer she spent traveling with her dad and sister. Even though her mom promised to take care of her plants, even though cacti can survive without care for a long time, Val came home to a windowsill of dead plants. She cried over them, but it wasn't really about the succulents. More about her mom breaking promises. About how she's the one who has to take care of herself.
I hate the thought of Val coming home to another set of dead plants, even if these drowned rather than dying of thirst. Or maybe because they did.
Overdoing it is just as deadly as underdoing it.
"Who's watering the ones in your bedroom?" I ask.
"My sister." She opens the door, slides out of the car, stretches her arms over her head.
I copy the gesture. It feels good. It feels better than sex, actually. Fresh air and movement after thirteen hours of stillness.
I want to run around the block.
I want to drop and do fifty push-ups.
I want to shower and sleep.
How can I be exhausted and ready to move at the same time? This international travel thing is exhausting. Too exhausting.
Val finishes a text as I help the cabbie with the luggage. When I'm finished setting the suitcases on the wide sidewalk in front of the building, she's frowning.
"He's not here?" I ask.
"No. He is. He's just…"
I raise a brow.
"He didn't realize you're staying here."
He's jealous. Of course he's jealous. She's gorgeous, and I'm every nerdy guy's idea of competition—a smooth player with tattoos and a leather jacket. At least, that's how they see me. That's all they see.
"I told him," she says. "But he… he's being stupid."
"Men often are." Especially when they're thinking with their dicks. Which is good for our mission. She wants him. So I want him to want her.
"You can stay in my room if he makes it into a thing."
In her room.
In her bed.
Next to her, in her pajamas, sleeping together.
Why does that sound so enticing?
She slips her cell into her purse and surveys the luggage, deciding what to carry first. After she checks everything, she wishes the cabbie well and gathers her hot pink bag.
"I can get that," I say.
The front door swings open, and a guy in light Bermuda shorts and a green short-sleeved button-up shirt steps outside. He's good-looking in a dorky way. With a slight air of I know better than you.
But that might be me. I stereotype educated guys because they've mostly treated me a certain way. They're nice to other smarty-pants. But lowly tattoo artists?
We're cute, to them. As if our entire career and culture is some sort of silly whim. Wow, tattoos, what a neat hobby? I love craft beer. Or, worse, did you know the first tattoo was performed in some historically inaccurate context. Or with some inaccurate device.
If I had a dollar for every white guy who told me tattoos are popular with the Yakuza and somewhat taboo elsewhere in Japan, I'd have enough money to upgrade my return flight to first class.
"Hey, V." Archie greets Val with a smile. "I missed you." He takes the suitcase from her and pulls her into a hug.
After he releases her, I shoot her a really look. Since when does she let guys carry stuff for her without permission?
She shrugs why turn down free help? "Thanks, but maybe say hi to Dare first?"
"Oh, you go by that in person too?" He takes one hand off the suitcase and offers it to me.
"Yeah," I say. "'Cause you gotta dare a girl to kiss me."
"Funny." He doesn't laugh.
I shake his hand. "True."
"Maybe when you came up with it in middle school," Val says.
"Tricky came up with it," I say.
"Tricky?" His nose scrunches. He doesn't approve of Patrick's nickname either.
"Patrick," Val says. "Dare's other best friend."
"In his dreams." Yeah, Tricky and I have been friends a long time, but we've never shared openly the way Val and I do. Until he suffered personal tragedy, then fell in love, he kept conversations surface level. The way I do with everyone besides Val.
Archie nods, not quite following or interested but playing along all the same. He's good at it. And he's handsome too.
I'm man enough to admit it. Sure, he's a little shorter (about Val's height), but he's well-built and well-dressed, and he's even got nerdy-hot glasses and a British accent.
Women love smart guys with British accents.
Good for Val.
Even if she's not feeling it, she can close her eyes and listen to him say anything, and she'll sink into some fantasy of banging a Brit. There's some American insecurity that has us swooning over the upper-class accent. Some classicism and cultural inferiority baked into our culture. Or maybe women can picture any guy with an accent as Tom Hardy. One of the two.