Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 72122 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72122 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Oh, shit!” I gasped, coming to my feet as did a few of the other ladies that were sitting surrounding the table.
Three pregnant ladies, all waiting for food, didn’t make for patient waiting.
“Ghost!” Tally gasped, already moving around the table.
I made it around the other way just as Imogen got off her stool, both of us jumping over Tank who looked annoyed that we would dare disturb his sleep.
That was how three pregnant ladies, all hormonal as hell, were found standing around a practically naked man who was in the process of taking off his pants when their men came in to see what the commotion was all about.
“Imogen!” Aaron barked. “Step away from the fryer!”
Imogen obeyed, but only far enough that she could bend to pick up Ghost’s gun that had fallen to the floor in his haste to get his pants off.
I squatted down and gathered his pants, as well as the phone that’d been in his hand.
A text message was on the screen, and I couldn’t help myself.
Ghost (8:30 PM): Don’t let my wife do it. I’ll come get her.
Unknown (8:34 PM): You can’t come get her, you’re dead.
Ghost (8:35 PM): Not anymore.
I hastily placed the items on the counter, and then turned back to the man who was the center of attention.
And almost blanched.
He had burns.
Oh, God did he have burns. They were everywhere. All over his body. They even distended down into his boxer briefs, disappearing from view.
Holy. Shit.
“Ghost,” I breathed. “Are you okay?”
I was breathless for a few reasons.
One, Ghost had just been burned, possibly badly.
Two, Ghost was practically naked, and despite his burns, he looked good.
Three, Ghost had a wife, and he was about to go get her.
Oh, shit.
“Jesus Christ, man,” Sean said as he pushed in between us. “You’re going to need someone to look at this.”
“No.”
Simple. Direct. That was our Ghost.
“Sorry, darlin’,” Big Papa’s date, Terril, sauntered up, placing her hands on Ghost’s back. “But I agree with him.”
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
The words, although low in pitch, felt like a scream in the busy, chaotic room.
Every man, woman, and child felt those nearly whispered words deep down to their souls.
“Sorry, hon,” Terril backed away with her hands raised.
I bit my lip and turned to find Truth, who made big eyes at me and gestured at me with his hand.
I left the commotion of the kitchen and walked into my man’s arms.
“What’s with that look on your face,” he asked, tilting his head down to study my eyes.
His hand had gone to my distended belly, absently running his big, rough palm down over the top of it.
The baby, the booger who only kicked for his father, nudged his hand, causing Truth to smile.
I moved until my mouth hovered just over Truth’s ear, though he did have to bend down a little to allow me to do it.
“I saw Ghost’s phone. He dropped it while all that happened,” I gestured with my hand to the spectacle over my shoulder.
Now Sean’s date, Ellen, who I’d seen looking at Jessie James more tonight than Sean, walked into the room, took one look at the man who was trying to disentangle himself from the melee of people that were making a fuss over him, and turned around and fled.
Jessie James (I still don’t know why the hell I called him his entire name, but I wasn’t the only one), followed after her with one look at Sean to make sure he wasn’t paying attention.
I winced inwardly. That was going to be a mess if it ever went past the innocent stage I could tell it was at right now.
“And?” Truth asked, oblivious to the soap opera going on around him.
“And on his phone, it said that he was going to get back his wife,” I whispered just as quietly as before.
He blinked.
Then a broad grin broke out over his face.
“Fuck yeah.”
Epilogue
When confronting a woman, you should always make sure her man isn’t around the corner.
-Fact of Life
Verity
7 months later
Verity (9:34 A.M.): That’s it. I’m selling this kid on eBay.
Truth (9:39 A.M.): What’d he do now?
Verity (9:40 A.M.): He shit on my shirt. And my pants. I’m pretty sure I have it in my hair.
Truth (9:54 A.M.): Take a shower and wash your clothes.
Verity (10:03 A.M.): He shit on your latest sword, too.
Truth (10:31 A.M.): Don’t be silly. You made him. You should sell him on Etsy.
I burst into peals of laughter, rolling over onto my stomach as I did.
The man I loved was a funny one, I’d give him that.
A cry of anger and pissed off ‘you woke me up laughing’ came from the baby’s playpen that was set up in the corner of my office, and I sighed.
I should’ve known better, but it wasn’t my fault.
It was all Truth’s fault. Every last, single bit of it.
“Do you have a minute?”