Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I silently plead for help from Koen. He presses his lips together, eyes wide, while he shrugs.
She didn’t tell him what I did? Whatever that was.
“Everything went fine. You know, I’ve watched you clean, take out the register drawer, shut off lights, and set the alarm dozens of times. Don’t you think it’s time you let me actually close on the nights I’m closing?”
“I live ten feet away. It’s no big deal.” She breezes past Koen to the back room.
Again, I look to him for help.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know, man,” he murmurs.
Weeks earlier, I would have marched into the back room, pinned her in a corner, and demanded she tell me everything. That was when I lived under the illusion of control.
I go to the back room, but no marching is involved. And I don’t pin her in a corner, but I hug her when she tries to slide past me with the mop.
She stiffens, arms at her side while the mop falls from her hand.
“You have to hug me back,” I whisper in her ear. “I have cancer.”
“That’s not fair,” she replies, reluctantly sliding her hands around my waist.
“Life’s not fair, but I don’t make the rules.” This time, it’s me who presses my lips to her cheek. “I love you.”
When I turn, she grabs my wrist. “And I you,” she whispers so only I can hear her.
When I emerge from the back room, Koen glances over his shoulder at me. I don’t say anything, but I hug him. He stiffens, and his reaction is a thousand times more intense than Scottie’s.
“Red blood cells, man. Just building red blood cells.”
He doesn’t hug me back.
We’ll work on that.
At least he’s not on the verge of punching me. That’s a good sign. His expression reads something like, “You weird, orange motherfucker.”
I leave without another word, and as I drive past the front of the store, I slow down to witness Scottie in Koen’s arms. He kisses her, but it’s not a friendly peck on the cheek. It’s passionate.
His hands in her hair, hers gripping his shirt.
I miss that feeling of euphoria—that shared all-consuming passion.
I miss her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LIFE IS THE DREAM THAT MAKES SENSE.
Scottie
I gasp out of breath, jackknifing to sitting in the middle of the night. A sheen of sweat covers my skin, and I’m aroused. But Koen’s at his place.
This is the third dream that I’ve had about Price in a matter of weeks. The third sex dream. These dreams don’t feel like flashbacks to when we were together. They’re present-day scenarios. He looks like he does now. And in the latest one, I cried while we had sex because I thought he was dying and we would never have sex again.
They’re dreams. I don’t control them. They don’t matter.
Still, every time it happens, I feel shaken for days. I feel like Koen knows and that Price looks at me differently after these dreams. What if I’m with Koen some night and say Price’s name?
I can’t get back to sleep, so I opt for meditation to cleanse my mind and alleviate this anxiety. By six, I’m out for my walk. When I return, my favorite guy is playing fetch with his dog by my trailer.
“No work?” I walk straight into his arms and steal a kiss.
He hums, dragging his lips down my neck. “I don’t work every weekend.” His hands sliding to my butt send me back a few steps.
“You can’t touch me like that until we’re married.”
Koen’s blue eyes gleam with playfulness. I don’t trust him.
“What if we just mess around?”
“You don’t like messes.” I pick up the ball that Scrot drops at my feet and throw it.
“I asked one to marry me.”
“Did you just reduce me to an unflattering noun?” I park my fists on my hips.
“You’re my mess.” He reaches for me, but I hold up a stiff finger.
“Don’t play with me, Koen. Are we haloed purists or filthy sinners? There’s no middle ground.”
His calloused hand encircles my wrist while he sucks my finger. “There’s only middle ground.”
Why? Why aren’t my sex dreams about this man? I’m a mess of need just from him sucking my finger.
“I need to shower.” I reclaim my finger and duck past him, straight into my trailer.
“Being good is only fun when it’s sprinkled with a little naughtiness.”
I ignore his theory while looking for a clean pair of pants. My dirty laundry clutters the floor around my bed. I needed to wash it a week ago. Koen will divorce me after one kid.
When I find a “clean enough” pair of pants in the pile of clothes at the end of my bed, I turn, but Koen’s blocking my way to the shower.
I square up to him, chin high, looking him straight in the eye. “Define naughty.”
A devilish smirk hijacks his face. “Oral.”