Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Bachelor pad if I ever saw one,” he mused.
I smiled faintly to myself. Yeah, maybe. Not that it saw any action on that front. I really didn’t fucking like people. Far as I knew, only my family and Adam had been up here. Bella too, maybe. I wasn’t sure. Then possibly a dozen men and women who’d gotten a similar treatment to Ben.
I’d always felt bad I had so much space and didn’t do anything about it, but what else did I need? And fuck having roommates. This was my one luxury, and I shelled out 75% of my pay to afford the rent.
In the bathroom, I showed Ben the ropes and how he could do his laundry. It was a spacious bathroom, all gray and white tile, modern, and the only things on the long counter, aside from a sink surrounded by my basic toiletries, were a box of detergent and a bottle of fabric softener. Big shower, one bottle of two-in-one body wash and shampoo, extra toothbrushes under the sink, razors too, towels on the rack between the toilet and shower. He was good to go.
He flicked a glance at my two overpacked laundry baskets and raised a brow. “You don’t wanna throw some of your shit in there? Seems like a waste.”
Yeah, all right. I should work on that. Usually, I threw in precisely what I was gonna wear the next day.
This was ten years of Ma buying me socks and boxer briefs and tees. She didn’t dare buy jeans, ’cause they had to fit just right. So my dislike for shopping was why I only had two pairs.
I made quick work of filling the washer and turning it on, and then I excused myself to make us some food. Hopefully, he’d enjoy his shower.
Should I check on him?
The shower had stopped running probably twenty minutes ago.
No, as long as I heard the occasional noise, I’d let him be. For a while longer.
I’d made his bed out in the hall. Everything was clean, and I hoped three blankets would suffice. Otherwise, I’d go downstairs and search through the donation boxes. That was where I’d once found the sheets and two pillows.
Shit. I shot right up from the foot of my bed, and I absently brushed nacho crumbs off my tee. I’d forgotten he might need to redress his wound after the shower.
I left the front room and knocked quietly on the bathroom door. “Ben? Just so you know, there’s a first aid kit under the sink too. Lemme know if you need help.”
I heard him cough and clear his throat.
“Thank you,” he replied thickly.
Goddammit. What else could I do for him? To be honest, I wasn’t used to seeing homeless people get emotional. It happened, obviously, but they were usually closed off and understandably guarded. On edge, even. Or in withdrawal.
“I’ll hurry,” he added.
“No—just…no, take your time. No rush.” I stepped back and debated calling my mother, only to realize it was past two AM in Florida, and she was definitely asleep.
Instead, I wandered over to the front door and opened it. Could I do something else to the alcove? Before I’d left the bathroom earlier, I’d told him we’d find clothes for him to sleep in. I was sure I had some sweatpants that sat loose on me.
I took another step and peered into the to-go bag from earlier, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek. His wallet—it was there.
He’d most likely not intended to leave that behind. Perhaps he was feeling too shitty. I didn’t know how much that car meant to him, but I knew how much having a roof over my head mattered to me.
Yeah, I was that douchebag who checked the wallet. It was a balancing act for me, figuring out how much to offer someone before I screwed myself over. I didn’t trust easily, but I wanted to. I wanted to give more.
He had… I sighed. About twelve bucks.
His driver’s license was expiring soon.
Benjamin Andrew O’Cleary.
Born on May third, and he was… Fuck, more math. He was turning forty-nine in a few months.
This was interesting. He was listed at an address out in Elmwood Park.
Brown hair, blue eyes—yeah, no fucking kidding. I’d seen them. Six foot four, sounded about right. He had a few inches on me. Huh, he was an organ donor.
Then I heard a faint noise coming from inside, so I hurriedly returned the license and the wallet before I made my way back in. I literally sprinted into the front room, and a second later, the bathroom door opened.
Christ.
The moment I was seated on the foot of the bed again, I tossed a couple nachos into my mouth.
Keep it cool.
Benjamin Andrew O’Cleary appeared in the doorway, wearing only a towel around his hips, and I had zero complaints. I was glad he’d redressed the wound. I didn’t want that cut infected.