Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
As I shake the bag of Fritos to cut into the silence, I keep glancing at Jack with slight warning.
Jack is a big smiler, but the awkward tension in the air has slaughtered his California charm. He’s almost cringing. “I’m not recording, Akara. I promise.”
“Can we get that in writing?”
Oscar wraps an arm around Jack. “My husband has no camera here. I can vouch for that. Frisked him earlier.”
Jack laughs. His mega-watt smile is back. “That’s what you call frisking?”
Oscar turns Jack’s baseball hat backwards. “I’ll demonstrate again later, meu raio de sol.” He leans in and kisses his husband.
I crumple the Fritos. Glad there’s so many happy couples here. I really am…not. Yeah, I’m not. Right now, I just want to be with the two people who make me happiest.
I interrupt the lovey-dovey shit. “Guys, I don’t need anyone vouching for anyone. I just want to make sure you’re all good. My relationship shouldn’t affect your work. Tomorrow you’ll all go to your clients and be clear-headed, okay?”
Donnelly raises his hand.
I feel exhausted. “What?”
He drops his hand. “If you’re dead, then who pays our bills? Assuming Ryke Meadows is going to murder you.”
“No one is getting murdered.” I push my hair back. “If he wanted to kill me and Banks, we’d already be dead.”
“He knows?” Oscar almost chokes on a shovel of popcorn.
I nod, and since they might hear the fallout through the rumor mill, I rehash the event in a few sentences and finish with, “That’s all I’m talking about Ryke. You want to gossip; do it on your own time.”
I hear Donnelly whisper to Farrow, “When did Akara become a crabby patty?” Patty sounds like paddy with his South Philly accent.
Farrow rolls his eyes, then pops bubblegum he’s chewing. “Most likely while listening to you fuckers.”
Donnelly blows him a middle-finger kiss.
Farrow smiles, but his lips falter as he catches me staring at his son who’s on his lap. Ripley Hale is babbling to his stuffed animal, hugging the parrot against his soft cheek.
Baby needs a bodyguard.
I lift my gaze to Farrow, and he shakes his head, “No. You don’t want to talk about Ryke, and see, I don’t want to talk about the extremely unnecessary security detail you want on my son. He already has me.”
“And if something happens to Ripley—”
“You can say, I told you so, Farrow. And it’ll be on me as his father.” Farrow chews his gum slower. “Finished?”
No. I haven’t been ready to shut this door closed. Maximoff and Farrow are way too obstinate together, and they’re not budging—but I need to kick inside. Because if Ripley is ever in peril, it’ll be on me and my conscience. And I don’t want to see a baby caught in the crossfire of hecklers or paparazzi any more than Farrow does.
But Ripley is the son of two unthinkably famous men. Who were trending a couple days ago just for walking out of a Cinnabon.
Let’s make a deal.
“Here’s the thing, we can talk about what happened with Ryke more, if you’ll just consider putting someone from SFO on Ripley’s detail.” I already figure he won’t trust anyone else but SFO to protect his son.
Farrow lets out a laugh into a smile, “Man, your relationship and what happened with Ryke is none of my business. I don’t need to know.”
“Redford,” Oscar groans, throwing popcorn at him. “I need to know.”
“Stamp,” Donnelly says in agreement.
Farrow tilts his head back and forth, then says, “Not happening.”
I toss the Fritos bag, more frustrated than I like letting them see. But I was just grasping for a silver lining, a win, something good while I’m in a mess.
Farrow looks me over. “I’m not trying to make your job harder, Akara.”
“But you kind of are, Farrow.”
“Fair enough,” he says easily.
He’s always been hard to work with, but he’s the best on SFO.
I’ve known him for years. Like early high school days. But Farrow doesn’t remember me from high school like I remember him. To Farrow, I was just a guy on the drumline.
But everyone knew Farrow Redford Keene. The inked, pierced teenager who changed his hair color with the months, who walked the halls like he had no care in the world. Yet, he was the top of his class.
Yet, he hailed from an incredible pedigree of doctors.
Yet, the more everyone tried to get to know him, the more you never could. He was popular but didn’t want to be popular.
I never sought him out. Farrow was older and never struck me as someone who wanted more friends.
And then Farrow was one of the first to walk into the gym I opened. I was eighteen, and I was enamored with the guy.
Farrow Keene wants to join my MMA gym?
He said he liked how quiet it was. No one to bug him. And yet, he told other people about Studio 9. Like a family of boxers who knew more boxers and MMA fighters.