Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
If there’s anything I know, it’s that the offer I’m about to make won’t hurt his morality. It will just take away his pain.
And I need him to believe this too.
I comb his hair back one more time, and then I dip my head down to whisper against his ear. “Can I shotgun you?”
11
MAXIMOFF HALE
Can I shotgun you?
The hammering pain inside my bones dulls as my brain processes those four words.
Can I shotgun you?
It sounds sexual in my head. Maybe it’s the way Farrow said it, his voice quiet but rough but silky-smooth all at once.
Or maybe it’s because I have no goddamn idea what shotgun entails.
I know about “calling shotgun” in terms of a passenger seat in a car. And I’ve seen a guy puncture a hole in a can at college and shotgun a beer. Neither of which seem that relevant right now.
So I’m lost and too inexperienced to make complete sense of his question.
I swallow a ball in my throat. “With…?” I can’t even get any words out; a stabbing sensation detonates again and again. Fucking Christ.
Imagine a nonstop sledgehammer banging on your bones and insides—and you can’t cast the sledgehammer aside.
It just slams and crushes.
Ignoring this torment—it’s close to impossible.
I clutch Farrow’s knee in a death-grip. God, I’m nearing a point where I just want to pass out.
I need this to end.
I need this to end.
“Donnelly,” Farrow calls, and to distract myself, I try to focus on things that my brain loves. Like Farrow Keene’s precise movements. How he stretches his arm out and takes something from his friend.
I try to concentrate on his age.
Twenty-eight. Six years older than me. I breathe through my nose at a sharp pain. Brain, you annoyingly love that he’s older. Don’t act like you’re disinterested now.
Twenty-eight. He’s twenty-eight.
I shut my eyes for a longer second and open them slowly. Lying down between his legs with my head on his thigh, my view mostly consists of the ceiling rafters and Farrow.
My head is in his lap is a song that plays too softly on repeat. That track should be blaring and drowning out I_Feel_Like_I’m_Dying.mp3 and Fuck_This_Shitty_Feeling.mp3.
Farrow bends somewhat over me, blocking the rafters from view. Pieces of his white hair fall to his lashes. “This is a blunt,” he explains, pinching the blunt between two inked fingers. “Shotgunning is where you take a hit from me. You don’t need to hold the blunt. Okay?”
He’s asking for my permission.
Because he’s a good guy. He’ll tell you he’s not, but he is.
I think for half a second and then nod with my chin. Giving into my body’s pleas. I’m not as afraid of weed like I am Vicodin or Oxy.
And it helps that I trust Farrow with my body. I’d never fucking agree to this without him.
“Okay,” Farrow repeats in relief, and he collects a lighter that’s thrown on my bed. I can’t tell from who.
But I just watch Farrow. Every damn movement. How he puts the blunt confidently between his lips. How he cups his hand around it while he strikes the lighter.
How his eyes lock on mine.
You wouldn’t even believe how much this helps. Just observing Farrow. Because for a fleeting second, I forget I’m in pain, and I’ll take that second, even brief. Christ, I’ll take anything.
A flame eats the paper as he inhales. Blunt now lit, he blows smoke up at the twinkling rafters. After that, he spins the blunt backwards, the burning end facing his lips.
I’m confused about how this works.
“Suck in the smoke, wolf scout,” Farrow tells me. “That’s all you need to do.” With two fingers, he places the blunt between his teeth, burning end in his mouth, the other side sticks out—and he leans over me again.
Lowering his head down.
Down.
Until the paper is an inch from my lips. Our mouths are lined up like an upside-down kiss.
His large hand sheathes my jaw. Protectively. Comfortingly. His other palm rests on top of my hand that death-grips his knee.
Farrow has told me how cinematic we are together, and I realize that I didn’t fully get it. Not until now.
Not until this blissful, out-of-body moment crawls to slow-motion and our intimacy intoxicates me. Dizzies me. Fills me to the brim. And I haven’t even inhaled a thing yet.
I could freeze-frame this second for eternity. But it plays out.
With the burning embers in his mouth, Farrow exhales. Smoke billows from the unlit end, and I breathe in. A silky line of smoke trickles down my throat.
I cough. Fuck.
He lets go of my jaw to take the blunt out of his mouth. Assessing me, and I try to relax and adjust to the new sensation. Smoke plumes around us, the smell more pungent than cigarettes, and Farrow draws back down for another hit.
He blows out, and I suck in smoke again. Trying not to cough this time.