Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 709(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 709(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
Scott peered at him. “At… your place?”
Max shrugged. “I’ve got a couch.”
Scott eyed him warily. “But… I don’t really know you.”
Max fought the urge to feel offended. He’d just saved this kid’s ass, quite fucking literally. But after such a close call, Scott was undoubtedly emotionally guarded. Probably trusted no one. Which was smart. Something that Max not only understood but applauded.
“I won’t take advantage of you… If that’s what you’re worried about.” Max held Scott’s gaze, then slowly smiled. “I do, however, plan to stuff you with food.”
Scott shoved to his feet and immediately wobbled. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I promise to stay out of your way.”
Max stood up, too. “If that’s what you want.”
Scott collected his shoes. “It’s what I know.”
Max frowned but refrained from making any commentary. Just led the way, kicking bodies as he went.
SIX
Max woke the next morning a bit earlier than usual. Probably because there was a stranger in his house. No one ever crashed at his place. Max revered his solitude. But for some reason, the idea of Scott sleeping there felt different. It didn’t rub Max wrong, didn’t irritate him, nothing. Which was saying something since just the thought of anyone lingering past their welcome typically made Max twitchy. And cranky.
Max pulled on some jeans and rubbed his eyes. Glanced at the clock. After nine. Shit. Guess he hadn’t woken up so early after all. He stilled, then turned his gaze to the door. It was awfully quiet. What if Scott already left? Or worse, what if he’d swiped some shit for drugs on his way out? Max clenched his teeth and stalked out of the room, bee-lining his ass down the hallway.
Stupid. So stupid. What the fuck had he been thinking, all caught up in being a hero. Regardless of how much Scott tugged at his sympathies, the kid was still a textbook junkie. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t dangerous. Didn’t matter that he’d needed help. People like that had compromised consciences, and couldn’t be even remotely trusted. Max glowered even harder, hands fisting at his sides. Swear to God, if he stole any of my shit, I’m gonna hunt his scrawny ass down and— He stopped abruptly as he reached the living room, finding Scott still crashed on his sofa.
Max’s ire vanished, replaced instantly with guilt. Just a twinge, but there all the same. Although, why he cared that he’d misjudged this stranger, he hadn’t a freaking clue. So he’d assumed based on probability. Fucking sue him. He’d only known Scott for tops a friggin’ hour. Chaz—who hadn’t had time to finish one Solo cup of beer—dropped them off first after their rumble at the party. And shit, not five minutes after they’d breached Max’s door, Scott passed out cold on Max’s couch. Five freaking minutes, just like that, while Max was in the kitchen making him a sandwich. A sandwich now sitting in the fridge.
Max frowned as he stood there watching Scott sleep. The kid looked like shit. And not very happy. Even in unconsciousness he was frowning. The after effects of getting roughed up last night? Probably just the onset of a wicked hangover.
Smirking a little, Max shook his head and headed into the kitchen. Time to brew the brew. And make another meal. Max’s smirk turned into the tiniest of smiles as he pulled open the refrigerator door. Breakfast for two. Not exactly typical, but not exactly bad. At least, not yet. He’d save all real judgement for later.
Max pulled out a canister of medium French roast, then filled up the coffee pot with water. Needed to get the jo percolating pronto, because, well, priorities and shit. Next he grabbed some eggs and bacon, a half-used stick of butter, and some bread. If Scott didn’t like sunny-side-up, too bad. He was eating this shit no matter what.
Two pans hitting the stove resounded first, followed by the gas burner’s tick, tick, tick. Egg shells cracking emitted next. Soon after, the popping of bacon. And then Max was off, frying things up, doing it just the way his mom had taught him.
Invigorating aromas filled the air, no doubt making their way to Scott’s nose. Max saw it the second Scott stirred, compliments of his kitchen’s awesome half-wall. Connected to a breakfast bar on the other side, it gave a nice, unobstructed view of the living room—and the pitiful-looking kid on his couch.
Scott’s lashes twitched first, then he started to move, his back and limbs subtly stretching. Max glanced away to butter the toast. When he looked back, Scott had sat up and was rubbing his eyes.
One corner of Max’s mouth curved. “Morning, kid. How you feeling?”
Scott winced a little and palmed his brow. “Headache,” he mumbled. “But I’ve had worse.”
“Ah, yes.” Max took a small swig of his jo. “The infamous aftermath of beer.”