Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“DON’T COME IN,” I bellow. “I’M NAKED AND I’M NOT ALONE.”
Hollis glares.
“What? I told him not to come in here.” Isn’t that what she wanted? Jeez.
Her mouth opens, then shuts again. “Sigh.”
I stand, too, grab a towel and wrap it around my waist to preserve my own modesty. Give her a delicate smack on the rear. A kiss on the shoulder, then one on the cheek.
“Take your time. I’ll warm up dinner.”
Her eyes get wide. “You’re feeding me?”
“Babe, I got it all covered.” I point down at the white terrycloth robe with my initials on it. “You can snuggle up in that if you want.”
I’m not sure what that look on her face is, but it’s something close to speechless—or adoration or worship. She’s making puppy dog eyes at me and I’m fucking here for it.
Is it because I called her babe or because I’m feeding and taking care of her?
Giving her one last smooch before padding barefoot to the closet, I yank a fresh t-shirt off a hanger and pull it over my head.
“Hey Trace?”
I turn.
“Thank you.”
Making toward the door to the kitchen, I blow her a kiss, feeling all kinds of cheesy.
“Whose car is that outside?” Tripp wastes no time needling me for details, picking at the food on my counter as if he has an open invitation for dinner.
He does not.
“Hollis is here.”
“Damn. She really is your girlfriend. I thought you were full of shit.”
“What do you want?”
“Whoa, easy. Did I interrupt something?” He pops a piece of steamed broccoli into his mouth—one I instantly try to pry out.
“That’s not for you, shithead. If you want something, order it yourself.” I take the bowl from his hands and cradle it to my chest. “This is for Hollis. She had a bad day.”
“I had a bad day, too, douche. Some asswipe driver in a Porsche cut me off at a green light.” My brother leans against the kitchen counter, stealing another bite of my dinner. “What was so bad about hers?”
“She was assaulted in the parking garage where she works.”
“What?” Tripp stands upright, face going pale. “Are you serious?”
“Yup.”
“Wow dude. Wow. I’m so sorry.” He takes advantage of my weakness and reaches for another broccoli floret.
I give him a strange look—he’s sorry? I don’t often see him like this. He seems sincerely and appropriately shook—this from a man who never apologizes, one who has cold ice running through his veins and no human emotion.
Allegedly.
I used to call him a robot when we were younger; nothing would piss this guy off, nothing rocked his world. It took some serious prodding to rile him up, so much so that I assumed he had no human emotions.
Obviously I gave him shit about it. And obviously, he’s matured, evolved into a bigger prick—one that is easier to aggravate.
I pop the glass bowls containing dinner into the microwave, one at a time.
“She was leaving the office early, some dude was at her car, and she startled him—he was trying to break in. When he couldn’t, he tried grabbing her laptop bag. She sprayed him with mace, thank god, and called the cops while he lay there.”
“Holy shit, is she okay?”
“Duh, I’m taking care of her.”
His stare is blank. “How did you find out about all this? Didn’t you have a game?”
I nod. “Skipped the beginning. Her best friend called while I was in the locker room, and normally I’d never answer, but for some reason I did, and thank fucking god.”
“Wait—you skipped half of your game?”
“No—I skipped the first inning and holy shit was Coach p-i-s-s-e-d pissed. But dude, how could I not have gone to the police station? Mom would have killed me.” She raised us better than that.
“Okay, but…” Tripp hesitates, lowering his voice like he’s about to let me in on a secret. “You’re not actually dating her.”
He has a point. “What’s your point?”
“Uh…you’re not dating her, that’s my point.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? I care about her—what difference does it make if I’m dating her? If I want her in my life, I have to show her I’m going to be there, and not just during the off-season.”
“Righttt, okay.” He pulls a face. “But still.”
My brother is certifiable.
I feel rage. “First of all, I’m telling Mom. Secondly, get out of my house with that attitude, you fucker.”
His hands go up. “I’m just saying!”
“Out.” I point toward the door. “I’m serious. I don’t need you here pissing me off and I don’t need you upsetting Hollis. Don’t text me until you’re right with yourself.”
Tripp has absolutely no idea how to respond; he moves toward the door hesitantly, as if his feet are made of lead, stuck in tar. As if I’m going to change my mind about wanting him to go, as if I’m about to tell him, Just kidding!