Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“How much more of the book you’re working on do you have left?” he asked, changing the subject.
I never really knew. It all depended on the characters and where they took me. “Not sure. Maybe thirty thousand more words,” I guessed.
“I’d ask what man you’re using for inspiration for this one, but I don’t think I want to know.”
That was probably for the best. Since it was him. I feared it would always be him.
If he could change the subject, so could I.
“Other than run a distillery, what do you do? You know, with your organized crime and all,” I asked him.
We hadn’t spoken about it since he’d blurted it out to me without any warning. I was curious. I’d been trying to imagine the different guys in this house as characters in my favorite Mafia romance novels, but it wasn’t working. They didn’t fit the part. Especially Gathe.
“Mostly organize my cigars, have my fedoras dry-cleaned, and try to master an authentic Brooklyn accent.”
I reached for the extra pillow beside me and hit him with it while laughing.
“Hey! Okay, fine. I also spend a good bit of time going over a list of nicknames I want to be called,” he said, grabbing the pillow and tossing it to the floor.
“I’m being serious,” I told him.
He frowned. “I am too.”
Rolling my eyes, I continued staring at him, waiting for a real answer.
He blew out a breath, then stretched, which only flexed his biceps, causing my eyes to lock on them with fascination.
“I do what I’m told, Shakespeare. Follow orders.”
“From who?”
“The boss.”
I licked my bottom lip, knowing I should let this go because he didn’t look comfortable talking about it. But I wanted to know. Not because I was being nosy or I intended to use it in a book, but because it was his life.
“What kind of orders?”
He smirked but stared up at the ceiling and not at me. “Things that have to be handled.”
“That was vague,” I pointed out.
He nodded. “Yep.” Then he turned his head to glance at me. “I can’t tell you what we do, Shakespeare. And not because I don’t trust you. The more you know, the more danger that puts you in.”
My stomach knotted up. I didn’t like the reminder that he lived this secret side life, where he needed guns and there was a chance that he could be shot. Killed.
“You’ve gone pale. What is running through that creative brain of yours?”
“Things I wished that weren’t,” I replied.
He smiled at me. “You’re safe. Trust me. I make sure of it.”
I knew he wouldn’t put me in any harm’s way; besides, I lived in New York, not the South. It was him I was worried about.
“I hate guns,” I whispered.
“And I hate Fifth Avenue. But, hey, we all have our vices.”
The corner of my lips quirked, and if I wasn’t thinking about the things that could happen to him, I’d have laughed at that.
“Did you want this life? Or did you and Than not have a choice?”
He was silent for a moment before responding, “We’re born into it. This life, the family—it is all we know. It’s in our blood. It’s a bond that I can’t explain. Than is my brother, but the other guys are too. We are raised together. Train together … yeah, I wanted it.” He said the last part as if he hadn’t ever questioned it before. It was just a given. A part of who he was.
He turned to look at me again. “You’ve got a long day tomorrow. Close your eyes. Get some rest.”
I wanted to talk more. Look at him, listen to his voice. But he was right. I needed to sleep.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I probably should. Good night.”
He smiled and looked back at the ceiling. “Good night, Shakespeare.”
Twenty-Two
Ransom
Was there a fucking award for this? Because I deserved it.
Lying in the dark, the only illumination coming from the moonlight spilling in through the curtains, Noa looked like an angel. It hadn’t taken her long to fall asleep. Apparently, my being in bed with her didn’t make her uncomfortable. And why was I here? What was the point of this?
To tempt myself further.
Get as close as I could and not get to touch. Not get another taste.
I needed to go to my room. Get her scent out of my head.
But I continued to lie here and watch her sleep like the psychopath I had become.
If there was a way for me to have her sexually, fuck her, and keep our friendship, I’d do whatever I had to in order to make it happen. Murder, torture, watch that vampire movie where they glowed and ate animals. I’d do it.
But this was Noa Raines. She deserved more. She deserved that shit she wrote about. Although if a man came along and offered it to her, I might kill him.