Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Technically, we were just talking. No touching was involved. The dotted line danced on my screen, and I momentarily forgot to breathe and blink.
Dylan: He was actually surprisingly decent, which was why I stayed with him for so long.
Dylan: Gave GREAT head.
My stare grazed the man behind the bar, envisioning him eating her out. Suddenly, I didn’t want to rough him up a little; I wanted to dismember him into three-inch pieces and feed him to zoo animals.
Dylan: What about you? Who was your best?
Rhyland: I don’t think I’ve ever had a best. All my hookups were the same level of adequate.
Dylan: And they say romance is dead.
Rhyland: It is, though, Cosmos. Think about it. Everything that represents love—flowers, hearts, swans, doves—dies eventually.
Dylan: Cosmos is such a terrible nickname. I get that you have to do this because of the fake engagement, but can’t you find something cuter?
Rhyland: Such as?
Dylan: Kitten? Baby? Sweetie pie?
Rhyland: You’re not a kitten and you are not a baby (thank fuck). I’ve also met limes sweeter than you.
Dylan: Whatever happened to trying to pretend to like each other?
Rhyland: The rules don’t apply to me.
Dylan: Why?
Rhyland: BECAUSE I’M THE ONE WHO IS PAYING AN ARM AND A LEG HERE, CASABLANCAS.
Tucker rang the overhead bell, signaling the end of the service, and I slipped out of my seat and outside to wait for him. It took another twenty minutes for him to emerge from the entryway of the bar, a backpack slung over his shoulders and a ball cap covering his eyes. I effortlessly snagged him by the collar and dragged him into the alleyway between the Alchemist and a boutique realty building. I slammed him into a nearby wall with enough force to create an impact. His skull thudded against the stone, and he spurted a surprised, “Shit, man, what the fuck?”
“The fuck is you are a fucking fuckwad.” I snatched the lapels of his shirt with one hand, using the other to throw a sucker punch to his right eye. I let my fist sail through, straight to his nose, hearing a small but prominent crack. He was going to have to get it repositioned.
Row never got the chance to do this when Tucker ran away from Staindrop, so I considered it a personal favor. I also wanted to put the message across that there would be no more finger imprints or blue marks on Dylan.
“That was from Row,” I announced cheerfully, watching Tucker moan as he reached to clutch his bleeding nose—side effect of the black eye I’d given him. “And this one’s for Dylan.” I kneed his stomach, making sure to stomp on his nuts in the hope he wouldn’t be able to reproduce anymore. This I considered a national service.
Tucker folded over, a squeak escaping his lips. “Enough!” His nose spurted blood that trickled down his neck and his shirt. He tried to push me off, but I only crowded him further. “Enough, please.”
“And finally, this one’s from me.” My fist landed flat against his cheek, sending his head backward again, against the wall.
He collapsed to the ground like a LEGO tower, arms shooting to his face to protect it. He wiggled like a fish out of water on the ground, trying pitifully to get to his feet and run. I considered kicking him in the ribs to drive the point home, but he looked so pathetic, shrimping into himself in whimpers, that I decided not to overdo it.
“Look, man.” He spat dirt into the gravel, eyes clenched shut, and in that moment, I realized he was a coward through and through. A coward who didn’t step up when the girl he’d impregnated needed him. A coward who couldn’t even look me in the face. “I get it. You guys are engaged. I saw the ring. She told me. But you can’t keep me away from my kid. I know my rights.”
That gave me pause. But of course, Dylan had been wearing my engagement ring—why wouldn’t he have jumped to the conclusion? And why would she have corrected him? I was paying her to play the dutiful fiancée. Plus, throwing a new relationship in his face must’ve been satisfying. It worked for us both in maintaining our deception.
I hooked a finger around the back of Tucker’s shirt, tugging him to his feet. He staggered to the wall, plastering himself against it, still flinching.
“Relax.” I fixed the collar of his shirt, which was now red, not blue, thanks to the injuries I’d inflicted. “I’m done putting my point across. Word to the wise—I sincerely don’t appreciate when people fuck with my shit. Dylan came back home with blue bruises over her wrist. I trust this is the first and last time you’ll tarnish what’s mine.”
I used the derogatory language deliberately. Men like Tucker only responded to toxic masculinity.