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)
She texts quickly. “My friend is picking me up. Can I have the address?”
I tell her the address of the apartment complex, and then Donnelly swings his legs off the bed and reaches for his jeans. “Hey,” he says to the girl, “if you wanna come along, I’m going to Wawa for lunch—”
“Wawa?” she cringes. “Ew.”
I almost laugh. Fuck, she hates Wawa. My smile stretches, decently entertained because Donnelly is going to lose his shit.
“Ew?” he repeats. “Girl, Wawa is a great wonder of Philly—”
“It’s just a convenience store. God, I don’t understand people’s obsession with it.”
Donnelly cringes. “Didn’t you see my tattoo?” He rotates slightly and flashes her the inked Wawa logo on his shoulder blade.
She tucks a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear. “Boy, it was just sex. I don’t care if a one-night stand is creepily obsessed with a gas station or not—and don’t act like this was anything more for you. You don’t know my name either.”
“You’ve gotta be a Betty,” he says. “Betty sounds like the name of someone who’d trash Wawa.”
She struts past the bed with her high heels in hand. “My name is Sylvia.”
I turn a fraction of an inch to let her pass through the door. She eyes my trauma bag and then disappears to the kitchen. Three minutes left.
I unpocket a stick of Winterfresh and peel the foil.
“See ya never, Betty!” Donnelly calls, and the front door slams shut. He jumps into his ripped jeans. “Can’t believe I stuck my dick in a Wawa hater.”
I pop my gum in my mouth. “You’ve stuck your dick in worse.” I straighten off the doorframe.
Donnelly buttons his jeans. “Nothin’ worse than a girl who hates Wawa.”
I whistle. “And your fucked-up standards persist.”
He grins and tugs his ragged shirt from last night over his head. He notices my trauma bag, and his mouth downturns.
I don’t unearth this thing from the closet every day.
Two minutes.
“Bike keys are on the bed,” I explain, chewing my gum. “I’ll be out for a while. You can use it if you need to.”
Donnelly doesn’t own a vehicle of any kind, and if he’s not borrowing my Yamaha, then he’s stuck on foot or with public transportation.
I veer into the kitchen, not loitering around any longer.
Donnelly follows close behind. “You tell your old man about being a bodyguard yet?”
I steal Cory’s apple out of a fruit bowl, and I glance back at Donnelly. “Not yet.”
A while back, Akara Kitsuwon suggested I try security training. He owns the Studio 9 Boxing & MMA gym, which became a hub for the famous families’ security team.
Donnelly and I were sparring on the mats, like we sometimes do, and in a break, I offhandedly mentioned being burnt-out from medicine to Akara.
Next thing I know, I’m in security training and Donnelly joins the ride. Now we’re both in the final course of training, and I’m one foot in medicine, one foot out.
Donnelly takes a jug of milk out of the fridge. “Been thinking about when you’ll tell him?”
I bite into the apple and hold Donnelly’s gaze for a short beat.
Once I tell my father that I’m quitting medicine to become a 24/7 bodyguard, I’ll lose him, and Donnelly knows this.
My relationship with my father is built on the notion that I’d become a doctor. That’s my worth. My life’s purpose. Remove it, and nothing is left.
Let’s put it this way: I was his student first, son last. Small talk was typical; anything deeper almost never happened, and sure, he was always busy like most fathers are. But I didn’t have a mother, and he didn’t hire a nanny or babysitter to look after me.
Instead, he put me in dozens of extracurricular activities. Made me fend for myself more than half the time.
And one of those activities was martial arts. I started at five-years-old and never stopped. It’s ironic that my love of MMA is what eventually led me to the Studio 9 gym, and ultimately, what opened the door to security training.
I can’t even be upset that I’ll lose my father with this career change. Because I don’t feel like I ever had a good one to begin with.
When will I finally tell the old man that I quit? I don’t make regimented plans like that.
I spit out my gum into a trash bin. “It’ll happen when it happens,” I tell Donnelly and eye the oven clock. One minute left.
He unscrews the milk cap, but his attention stays on my bag. “What’s with that?”
“My father got a call. I’m helping out one last time.” I take a large bite of apple.
He chugs milk from the jug. “Tell whatever Hale needs you that I say what’s up.”
“No,” I say easily and head for the door, “and man, stop assuming the worst about the Hales.” The parents are addicts, but they’re in recovery and sober. And they’re better than most mothers and fathers that Donnelly and I grew up around.