Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“I haven’t told him my feelings yet, I needed to talk to you first. But I think he knows. Or he’s . . . aware. He’d treat me well, Carl.”
“Right.” Nick could offer free medical care for their hypothetical dog for its hypothetical long life. Carl could offer a kennel. “Right.”
Dead-End Dude.
He scrolled a hand through his hair again, nodding and nodding. Even forced out his dimples. “Right. Yeah. Sounds like he’s a better fit. I’m curious to meet him.”
Pete smiled dreamily, and it hit Carl like a storm. He could barely hold on.
This is what it felt like to be dashed to pieces.
[Dorothy] felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about her that she nearly became deaf.
L. Frank Baum
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Chapter Two
At a half-broken bench on an outcrop overlooking Wellington, Carl cracked open the six-pack in his bag and drank while the city came to light-speckled life under a cold, misty night sky.
His hands numbed quickly, and he wished the rest of him would numb too. The stuff inside his chest kept twisting and turning, roaring. He could never go back. Never go back to being Carl Birch, dud, with no prospects and a penchant for accumulating fines.
After his sixth beer, cans squashed and stuffed back into his bag, he stood, shoved his flannel hoodie hood up over his head, and let the wind at his back push him to the edge of the bushy drop below. Over the sound of crunching gravel on the path behind him, he sighed, and the sigh fogged before him like a new path unfurling.
He opened his arms wide. Wellington. This new place, much bigger than Earnest Point, where no one knew Carl; this new place, where he didn’t have to be Pete’s best man; this new place . . . could he start over?
“Don’t jump.”
The voice was deep and calm, and totally unexpected. Carl whirled around, dizzy, pulse singing. A grey-hooded figure—washed in moonlight, vaguely shimmering in the moist air—strode his way. Power, urgency, determination radiated from him, and each of his steps was a curious punch to Carl’s stomach. Seriously, the only thing missing from this moment was some kind of cape—
A ticklish laugh bubbled out, and—
Gravity raced through him.
Carl wasn’t the type to topple over at the barest outline of a sexy man, but . . . He tried to catch himself, but his foot twisted and everything became a rush of sounds. Shouts—his own. Someone else’s. His hand was suddenly burning where he’d grabbed hold of a branch and clung onto it while his feet scrabbled on prickly bushes to propel himself back up to the outcrop.
He wanted to start over, not reincarnate! He liked this body, this face; those could stay the same please-and-thankyou! Just the substance was the problem.
Arms extended towards him, strong hands curling around his upper arms. A flash of pinched brow overhanging the cliff, the mist making the world blurrier, the grunted, “Hold on. I’ve got you.” And later, the desperate, “I’ve got you this time.”
A combination of Carl’s own attempts and the stranger’s heaving had Carl clambering over the precipice, and—
A final yank, the push of his foot finding purchase on a branch, throttling him forward against his saviour. They fell in a thumping heap to the firm, flat ground. For a good dozen seconds, Carl’s heart hammered, adrenalin momentarily cleaving through the alcohol. A body was trapped under him. Firm lines, masculine, and breathing hard. A gruff, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, mate. Thanks.” Carl rolled to the side; his saviour sucked in air and began picking himself up, knocking Carl’s bag from the bench in the process. A crushed can slipped out of the open zipper and was picked up again as Carl decided against standing until his head stopped spinning. God, it was spinning.
He blinked through it and took in his hero. The guy was tall, and the hood of his windbreaker was pulled up. His mouth and nose were covered by a scarf. A sparkly silver scarf. Carl couldn’t tell if the shades of grey made some kind of pattern, like birds or fish or . . . wow. Even drunk, even with most of that face covered, Carl could tell the guy was curling a lip at him, unimpressed.
Alongside the unimpressedness, Carl made out dark eyes. Eyes that scrolled over his every inch unflinchingly. Eyes that pinched with apprehension. Eyes that grimaced.
“Drinking? While hiking on your own? At night? Are you an idiot?”
Eyes that saw the truth. This probably wasn’t Carl’s smartest idea. “Carrying on like a right pork chop, wasn’t I?”
His saviour stuffed the can into his bag and zipped it up for him, muttering something about tourists. “Alright. Let’s get you off this hill.”
Carl waved a hand. He’d embarrassed himself enough. “I’m not that far gone. I can make it down on my own.”