Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
So, naturally, we became it.
We are family.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I wouldn’t paint the world red to keep him safe.
And this shit with McAdams?
It has me anxious to fucking start doing exactly that.
Rabbit lightly nudges me in the side to get moving.
To join him.
I let my dark gaze meet hers, silently pleading for some help on what to say, what not to say, fuck, what not to do, yet she provides me with nothing.
Simply tips her chin in his direction.
Which isn’t fucking helpful.
I know where he is physically.
It’s trying to find where the fuck he’s at mentally that’s the problem.
Leaving her behind, leaning against the side of my truck near the emergency gas cans, I cautiously cross over to the space he’s occupying, internally wracking my brain for the best choice of words possible for this situation.
We weren’t exactly allotted ample opportunity to talk down at the station so much as listen, because our attorney insisted, we say nothing for legal reasons. Apparently, the investigation against me, the self-defense query against Kipp, and Rabbit’s stalker issue are all neon flashing arrows that state this shit’s related to one if not all of those things, complicating our already complicated legal situations.
Post handled talking to us with his hands metaphorically cuffed the best he could.
Tried to be understanding.
Sympathetic.
Unfortunately, his attempt at compassion ended with a needlessly cryptic line about not letting our new cowgirl stomp her muddy boots through his town.
Something that was also not fucking helpful.
Rabbit doesn’t need any more encouragement to haul ass away from us.
And I don’t need to add punching out a sheriff to the possible criminal charges Garcia is planning to get dismissed if or when necessary.
The minute I’m within range, I awkwardly inquire, “How’s that engine, Kid?”
He angles his face slightly over his shoulder, showing me the few tears that are stained on it and doesn’t say a word.
He simply shrugs.
Lifelessly.
Shrugs.
There’s no sniffle.
No grunt.
Not even a heavy sigh of defeat.
Chest aches of unmatched proportions send me falling to my knees beside him, something I’m sure they’ll gripe about in a couple hours. “Talk to me, Kipp.”
His attention drops back to the space between his bent legs where he’s drawing something in the dirt. Rather than respond, he resumes tracing the strange, almost boot-like pattern, again and again and again, as if each lap is providing him with some sort of relief that I can’t.
That I don’t know how to.
Fuck. Me.
How is it before we were fucking, I felt I knew exactly how to handle shit with him but now that we are, I’m completely lost?
I rearrange my frame to sit more comfortably beside him, steal a reassuring glance that Rabbit’s still safe – something she acknowledges by waving a hand at me to turn around – and then do my best to focus on the drawing being captured in the late-night moonlight.
At first, I’m convinced the picture is just aimless doodling, yet the longer I stare, the more visible the subtle movements of his hand become, ultimately revealing the creation’s identity. “That’s a track.” Leaning my back against the tree, I study his slick finger work further along the stick, noticing it’s less traditional changes. “And you’re shifting gears.”
The Kid’s head tilts just an inch closer to me as if wordlessly confirming my suspicions.
“Question is…which one.” A large huff is preceded by a stronger squint. “Most likely an F1 since you look like you’re pushing buttons versus actually shifting, and because you have a not-so-secret hardon for those.”
At that, he pauses to toss me an incredulous stare.
“Come on, Kid. I’ve damn near walked in on your jerking it to highlights more than once.”
An urge to laugh flashes on his face; however, he fights past it.
Resumes the wordless charting.
Hurts my heart again.
“I don’t think it’s Monaco. That one looks more like a fucked-up crab leg.”
He lets a small nod of agreement present itself.
“And I don’t think that shit’s Silverstone ‘cause that one looks more like a deformed bat.”
A second nod leaves him.
“Is it the one in Italy?” Scooting slightly closer to him is slyly done. “Not too far from Milan?”
The Kid nods once more yet doesn’t give me the answer.
It’s a challenge.
To remember.
Him.
Something special about him.
Pulling my lips to one side and then other is done repeatedly in contemplation until the answer finally nut taps me. “Monza!”
“The Temple of Speed,” he quietly adds, movements slowing down. “Racing there is all I wanted to do when I was kid.” Nostalgia effortlessly infiltrates his tone. “I wanted to be an F1 driver.” His stare remains on the drawing. “I wanted to race for Ferrari. I wanted to wear the red. I wanted to be a member of The Prancing Horse.” Seeing the corner of his lip perk up encourages mine to do the same. “Each night before bed, I would use my pillow like a steering wheel and race that course. And every night my mom was home, she’d stand in the doorway, wait for me to cross the finish line, and then cheer at my victory.” This time I manage to spot a droplet creeping down his cheek. “Afterwards, she’d tuck me in and swear she’d be there when I was all grown up, crossing the real thing.” Tears stick themselves pitilessly to his tone. “There was no doubt in her mind that I was gonna do something fucking great.”