Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Yeah.” But he stares off. Thinking again. Fuck.
I retrace my words. Okay, I said “forever” and I’m not sure he ever thinks that far ahead. He’s young, and I’m his first boyfriend. I’m not trying to scare him off. At all.
“I didn’t just propose to you,” I say casually, “calm down, wolf scout.”
Maximoff growls, “I’m calm.” He hears his edged voice, then sighs out his frustration. He almost smiles when he catches sight of mine.
He nods once, eyes on me. A look that lights me on fire. We sit up fully at the same time, and he seizes the back of my head. Our mouths crush together again.
Fireworks explode in rapid succession for a finale, but neither of us are ready for this night to end.
31
FARROW KEENE
After a quick shower in the suite, we hurry out. I throw a towel at him, both of us dripping water. Our phones started buzzing at the same time.
I check mine.
Turn on your radio – Akara
u need ur radio, boss is getting mad – Donnelly
Radio. – Thatcher
bro, get your radio. – Oscar
Everyone told me to text you to get your radio – Quinn
Could be serious or unimportant. I’m not panicked. I glance at Maximoff who reads his own texts before I leave for the living room. Finding my radio beneath a tufted chair. I crouch and grab the thing.
Maximoff appears, phone in hand. His shoulders are squared like he could join a rescue team. I almost smile. Because this is his posture when he’s just brushing his teeth.
“And?” I ask while I untangle the cord to my earpiece.
“The girls left the club.” He uses his arm to rub water off his temple. “They’re at a 24/7 diner and asked if we wanted any food to-go.”
“Shit,” I curse, flicking a switch to my radio. “It’s dead.” I stand quickly and collect my pants, digging in the pockets. No batteries on me.
See, if SFO changed locations and they believe Maximoff will eventually meet-up with their clients, then they’ll want to stay in touch with me via radio. Hence, the onslaught of text messages.
I step into a new pair of black boxer-briefs. “I have more batteries on the bus,” I say, grabbing my pants and belt. We parked the tour bus at the nightclub’s VIP parking. Only a ten-minute walk from this hotel.
I’m not going to be fined for pointless shit, and losing a grand for a dead radio is about as pointless as it gets.
Dressed fast, Maximoff and I breach the crisp night. He draws the hood of his Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt, and I zip up my leather jacket.
Dallas still alive as the New Year rolls in, drunken people cheer on the sidewalks. Gold top hats on heads and feather boas on necks. More fireworks crack, but less frequently.
I love high-strung cities that never sleep.
Maximoff drinks in the frenzied atmosphere. No paparazzi or screaming fans interrupt the moment yet.
We walk step-for-step in sync, edging close to each other. He almost catches a yawn, but it escapes with a soft, “Fuck.”
My mouth upturns. The suite was a secure room, so I say, “You could’ve slept back at the hotel. I’m capable of grabbing batteries alone.”
His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and he stuffs his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “You’d probably get lost,” he says dryly. “Directional skills are the first thing to go after I make someone come.”
I laugh once. “That’s cute, but you don’t need an excuse to hang out with me.”
He growls into an aggravated groan, “Fuck off.” The corners of his lips start lifting.
My smile is fucking killing me. It takes all my energy not to grab his hand. Instead, as we face straight ahead, I lean closer, and our shoulders touch.
His carriage rises.
“Is that Maximoff Hale?” I hear the female voice, about twenty feet ahead of us. Clusters of women smoke outside an upscale bar. Mid-to-late-thirties, all in sequined cocktail dresses, they wobble in heels and zero in on Maximoff.
I lower my voice. “Ignore them. Don’t do anything.” His gut-reaction will be to acknowledge fans, but for the sake of his cousins and their anonymity, he can’t let this location leak.
Maximoff is more rigid. He shifts his head slightly. His hood partially conceals his features, but not that well. We have to walk towards the women and the bar, just to pass them.
A woman cups her hands to her mouth. “Maximoff Hale!”
“Can we get a picture?!” another woman shouts.
“I want more than a picture,” one says suggestively and too loudly.
I’m not “gawking” at Maximoff or the women. Bodyguard 101 for this situation: stare straight ahead.
Walk.
Don’t engage.
“Oh my God, he’s hotter in person.”
“Is that really him? Can he hear us?”
We step in direct line with the bar.
“Are you Maximoff Hale?” A blonde woman is about to cut us off, but I slyly move out of my path and step towards her. Causing her to stay put and blocking her from my client.