Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees feeling a few years closer to that heart attack than ever before.
My ass hits concrete. I rest my head on my knees.
How much longer can I live like this?
Probably not much longer.
Several minutes pass before I feel steady enough to try standing. I get to my feet, and suddenly, I feel the same hot awareness I felt earlier. I snap my head up, and this time, I do spot someone who looks out of place.
There’s a man across the street, partially concealed as he crouches on the other side of a big matte-black motorcycle. His sculpted and tattooed biceps flex as he works on something on the other side of the wide back tire.
As if he knows I’m looking at him, the man peers out from behind the tire. I’m caught. I don’t run, but I can’t look away either.
Everything about him is dark. From his shoulder length hair to his black clothes. His facial hair falls somewhere between scruff and beard, longer, shorter on the sides.
His eyebrows are knitted together in a sharp scowl. I realize it’s not me he’s looking at, it’s his bike.
He’s just a guy working on his bike. He’s not here for you. Sleep, Frankie. You need some fucking sleep.
The stranger tosses down a wrench, it bounces around on the concrete. I can hear his growl of frustration all the way across the street. He pushes off his knees and stands.
Whoa.
He’s large. Not just his body, but his presence. A soaring skyscraper casting an endless shadow. His stride is long and sure as he makes his way from his bike into the service station. Each step of his boots is a claim of ownership upon every crack in the asphalt. His tight black t-shirt hugs the rippling muscles of his chest and arms. His jeans hang low on his waist and show off the perfect high curve of his rounded ass. An unlit cigarette dangles carelessly from his lower lip.
I’ve never seen anyone like him before. Raw. Powerful. I can’t stop watching him. Maybe it’s because I’m still high, or maybe it’s because Duke and I were just making out and I’m still primed with lust. Or because I just freaked out for the third time today. But this man is a walking billboard for both terror and lust. A human thunderstorm.
He’s beautiful.
My father’s words from years before ring in my ear. Men are meant to hide from, Frankie. To fear. At best they are meant to manipulate. Be the manipulator, Frankie, not the manipulated. Run before you have to ask yourself if you should. Know what they want from the look in their eyes, not from the words coming out of their mouths.
The man comes back out of the service station. He lifts one long leg and straddles his bike with ease. It thunders to life. I’m all the way across the street, but the vibrations reach out under the asphalt and touch me. I feel the rumble in my chest. Dirt is suspended in the air a good inch above the pavement as the ground underneath shakes.
He rolls his bike out of the parking lot and then turns down the road in the opposite direction without so much as a glance my way.
I’m disappointed
What did I expect from this momentary one-sided infatuation?
I rub my eyes and decide I’m one sleepless night away from creating false relationships with celebrities in my head. I can hear the news anchor now.
A young woman was arrested today at the home of Sam Hunt for breaking and entering. The woman was delusional, insisting that she was Sam’s wife. She repeatedly shouted ‘what about the babies’ until police were finally able to apprehend the woman. Mr. Hunt, who has no children, confirmed for the record that he’d never met the woman, although he sincerely hopes she finds and receives the help she so obviously needs.
The roar of the motorcycle is an echo in the distance. I go back inside, engage all the locks, and now that I know it’s safe, I head to the kitchen first to scarf down a protein bar.
When I’m finally fed I head to the basement to assess the damage. Luckily the monitor that fell is banged up but still works. I clean up the rest of the mess then locate Izzy who I shoo back out the window. I attempt to lock it, but the latch won’t click shut. The glass above it is smashed.
But the alarm still didn’t go off?
I check the wiring around the window and see that it’s been chewed through. Damn cat. I splice the wire and twist the inner workings together. I nail a piece of wood over the window.
I light one of the joints Duke gave me and sit down at my computer. My fingers fly over the keyboard. I won’t be able to sleep for a while so I might as well get some more work done.