Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
How could I have ever imagined I’d mean more than his club?
I was a love-drunk idiot, buying him cupcakes and sharing the most intimate parts of me as if I completely forgot who we are at our cores. He will always be a Vulture, and I’ll always be a Butcher. We never had a future to begin with.
“Clyde!” I hear Road yelling, and I see him in my rearview mirror, wrapped in only a towel, but sprinting my way anyway.
I leave him in the dust. He can walk back to his own car. It’s only two miles.
Chapter 28
Road
Was the comforter ever this heavy before? Or is there someone in my bed?
I don’t dare to open my eyes, eager to remain unaware of mistakes made on a mixture of alcohol and drugs for as long as possible. I make a mental checklist. I can’t smell feminine perfume or shampoo—yet—but as I rack my brain for memories of last night, I remember dancing with girls, and Sawyer sitting in my lap at some point, but I couldn’t have—
Why would I sleep with a woman ever again after Clyde? Right now, even the thought of another man slobbering over my cock feels disgusting. But if I was really fucked up yesterday—
The weight on top shifts, and my body stiffens, waking up to… a scratchy lick?
That is not a kiss.
“Nutter! You little fucker!” I whine and push the cat off my face where he was about to sit his ass like some feline lap dancer trying to make extra cash.
The ginger cat yowls at me in complaint, and soon several more join in the godawful choir. At least that solves the mystery of why my comforter was heavy. It would be with six damn cats sitting on my chest. I must have left the door open last night.
Now they’re all demanding breakfast, and I cover my ears in despair, sitting up in the bed.
Nutter is right back, this time adamant that he’ll sit on the pillow my head has just vacated. If he thinks his furry butt is going anywhere near Clyde’s T-shirt, he has another thing coming, so I shoo him away.
I pick up the top Clyde left me with at the motel and press it to my face in hope of it soothing my hangover. It still smells like him—of whiskey, smoke, rosemary, and the unique aroma of his own flesh, but the scent is fading with each passing day, slowly replaced by that of my own body. If only the ache radiating deep inside me was as easy to cover.
I roll to my side as the cats rearrange themselves on top of me. It’s not my favorite way to wake up, but it beats having a girl here, or once again staring at the empty space next to me like a lovesick puppy.
It’s not like I’ve spent many nights with Clyde, and I’ve only ever woke up next to him a handful of times—most of them after naps between one fuck and another—but it always felt so satisfying to see his face next to mine. I would often just watch, then wake him up by pulling my fingertips over his stubbly skin.
Couldn’t it have been like that after our night at the motel?
Why? Why did I fucking have to get all honest about Roy’s death, even though it changes nothing?
My face buries deeper into the fragrant folds of the T-shirt, and I groan in helpless anger at myself. Before it happened, Clyde told me we were more than fuckbuddies, that he wanted to make things work, that he wanted to be with me, and I had to ruin it all by the stupid desire to know he’d still choose me if he knew the truth. That he’d want me no matter what happened in the past. That I wouldn’t have to lie to him any longer.
Fat fucking chance.
It’s been three days since I came back home, and all I can think of is the warm apprehension in his eyes when I entered him. The perfect way he felt around me, the warmth of his arms, and the sweetness of his fast, shallow breath on my lips.
All things I can never have again.
I should have salvaged it somehow, made up some fucked-up reason for Roy’s death to obscure the truth that I can’t tell him. He would have believed me. I know it. I could see the yearning to forgive me in his eyes. But how could I lie to him again?
Where would that lead me?
Between his legs, an ugly voice in my head suggests from behind the throbbing headache, but that’s not the only thing I want.
I groan at the memory of him gripping me with his thighs, moaning for more of my dick and kissing me so fervently. I didn’t want to steal his affection with another lie.