Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Parker: I have not been obsessing about her SINCE PUBERTY. I obsessed during puberty, then took a fifteen-year break from obsessing, and have recently begun obsessing again. THERE’S A DIFFERENCE.
Nix: *laugh crying emoji*
Parker: Don’t laugh-cry at me. I know what I’m doing. And so does she. We have acknowledged the sexual tension in the room and made rules to ensure a harmonious, platonic, co-living situation.
Nix: Oh yeah? Like what?
Parker: No sex or making out, we keep our clothes on in common areas, and no hugging after five o’clock.
Nix: What happens at 5:01? Do you turn into a pumpkin?
Parker: I don’t. She’s the one who made the rule. Apparently, her willpower is stronger before five and when she hasn’t been drinking.
Nix: This is foreplay-disguised-as-promises-that-we’re-not-going-to-fuck. Straight up. You both protest too much.
Parker: I don’t! I’m down to fuck as soon as she gives the green light. But until she does, I’m sticking to the rules. When I make a promise, I keep it. For real.
Nix: Okay, if you say so. But the whole “hugging rules” thing is suspect. If she’s serious about keeping things platonic, there would be NO hugging.
Parker: I may have been the one who pushed for hugging…
Nix: Of course you did. You’re a glutton for punishment when it comes to this woman. Are you a masochist? Do you enjoy pain?
Parker: There’s nothing painful about it, dude. Hugging her is the best. Hugging her is my new favorite thing. She’s so warm and curvy and smells so damned good, and her adorable little bod fits against me just right. And I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her, even though we honestly barely know each other as adults.
Nix: You’re so fucked.
Parker: Yeah. I know.
Nix: Deeply catastrophically fucked.
Parker: I KNOW. Speaking of catastrophically fucked, have you heard about the fundraiser on Friday at The Brass Monkey? That dive bar I love in the burbs? It’s a fun hang, and all proceeds go to at-risk youth who lost their homes in the flood.
Nix: Yeah, I’ll be there. Pretty sure the whole team is going to go. Blue already posted about it in chat. You should poke your head in there, man. Let people know you’re okay.
Parker: I will. I was just lying low until I knew for sure the knee was going to be all right. Or…not all right.
Nix: I’m really glad it’s going to be all right. The Voodoo wouldn’t be the same without you.
Parker: Thanks, man. I’ll holler at you later. Gotta go buy Makena something to wear that didn’t originally belong to my mother.
Nix: And you say I have mommy issues…
Parker: You so do. You should sort that shit out before you accidentally fuck a teammate’s mom and someone decides to cut your dick off.
Nix: Well, at least I would have lost my dick doing what I love.
Parker: Old women.
Nix: Yes. Already told you, man, you can’t shame me. I have no shame. You shouldn’t, either. If you’re having feelings for Makena, you should tell her. That way, you’ll know if there’s hope or if you’re setting yourself up for a fall. You know?
Parker: Nah, it’s not the right time. She has too much on her plate right now. But once she’s back on her feet, I’ll come clean. Until then, I’m just going to enjoy her company. She’s making shrimp and grits tonight. AND she’s going to clean up after because I’m a poor wounded hero with a bum knee who can’t rinse dishes and load them into the dishwasher.
Nix: Damn. That’s not a bad deal. Maybe you aren’t a hopeless simp.
Parker: Thanks. Now fuck off. I have this all under control.
Chapter
Six
PARKER
Five Days Later…
Nothing is under control.
Which is normal for a night out at The Brass Monkey, but this isn’t the fun kind of out of control. This is the “the sexual tension in my house is about to drive me fully insane” kind.
It’s Friday, nearly a full week since Makena became my roomie, and I’m sitting in a cracked booth by the karaoke stage at my favorite dive bar, nursing my second Trash Panda. I should be feeling no pain—aside from the occasional throb in my bum knee. But thanks to a round of steroid shots, regular icing, and the genetic gift of speedy healing, my MCL isn’t bothering me all that much.
No, what’s bothering me is the woman murdering “Hungry Like the Wolf” up there in the hot pink stage lights. The woman in ripped jeans and a tiny black tank top that keeps riding up as she wails into the mic like a tone-deaf gerbil, because an anonymous donor promised five hundred dollars to flood relief for every person who sings tonight.
Makena couldn’t carry a tune in a wheelbarrow with four friends along to help her push. And she does ever-so-slightly resemble a gerbil when she first gets up in the morning and her face is still puffy.