Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
“A little something for my Valentine.”
Lincoln backed away inch by inch, taking his hypnotizing scent and touch with him.
“You know where I’ll be…don’t make me wait too long.”
The vibration in his chest from the rumble of Lincoln’s motorcycle was enough to distract him from completely losing his shit or doubting that really had just happened.
God-fuckin-damn.
Sharpe dropped his head against the cold brick and pressed his palms into his eyes.
Once his dick calmed and the blood recirculated back to his brain, he removed what Lincoln had shoved in his pocket.
He wrapped his hand around the small cardboard-like box, already suspecting what it was.
Anyone over forty would know.
He took out the box and rolled his eyes before prying open the top flap.
He hated to admit that the sweet smell of the old-school heart-shaped candy was bringing back some not-so-bad feelings. Nice ones he used to have before he allowed life…love…to defeat him.
Sharpe popped a couple of pieces in his mouth, wondering what saying was on them: Be Mine or Kiss Me.
He was about to return to the station to finish the shift until he remembered he didn’t have to.
Lincoln was right. He was working even when he wasn’t required. All because he was trying to ignore what his soul was calling for.
Healing and restoration.
Belladonna.
101st Street, Skid Row
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
February 15th, 8:52 p.m.
The cold air whipped at Axel’s face as he walked down the long boardwalk. Axel carried the care package close to his chest, the heavy tote strap cutting into his forearm.
Inside, he had the usual: a few Styrofoam containers overflowing with hot food from Thorn’s chefs, who cooked dinner for them Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays—the other days they had leftovers or cooked for themselves.
He also had cold medicine, water, sports drinks, two packs of socks, and another thick blanket—for Waylan.
He’d been going to Skid Row every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday without fail for months. The consistency comforted Clarence and the others.
Sometimes, when Axel had extra, he handed out sandwiches, water, and toiletries to the women with children or to the young runaways who also struggled to follow the rules of the street.
He tried to remember all their names, but people came and went so fast out there that it was difficult to keep up.
Axel always turned his head from the area of the strip that he’d lived on for so long. Where he’d slept with newspapers shoved in his pants and shirt for insulation, begged passersby for spare change so he could afford food that night, nights he’d spent on his knees when he was a teenager.
His mother had been too deep in the needles to look out for him, let alone feed him. Born drug-sick, rattled by seizures before he could crawl, he’d been bounced from one reluctant relative to another before the system bustled him into foster care.
After he’d aged out, the streets claimed him like a final foster parent—the cruelest, most unyielding of them all.
Four years he survived there, begging, hiding, starving, engaging in prostitution.
Four years before Thorn.
Axel would never forget the night he’d tried to rob Thorn at knife point—pocket-knife point.
He’d done all he could to avoid turning to a life of crime, but one hopeless day, he’d given up.
No one could understand the feeling of a hollow stomach and what four days without a meal could make a person resort to.
Axel had been crying so hard, bent over, clutching his stomach, his demand for money still sounding like begging. He’d been a pitiful sight, trembling so bad he was barely pointing the blade straight.
Thorn had seen right through him.
There’d been no judgment in his dark eyes, no disgust.
Instead of calling the cops, Thorn had pulled him back from the edge. He’d cleaned him up, given him education, dignity, and the chance to become a gentleman.
That was five years ago. He’d mended many hearts since, given comfort, and shared love.
But no one had ever sung to him the way Waylan did.
He inhaled, steadying himself. He was making progress with the wary redhead. Only two more encounters since the gala, and each had been fleeting. Waylan ran hot and cold, silent, distrustful scares always his go-to, but Axel wasn’t giving up. Patience was his best attribute. Empathy his gift.
Axel ducked into Clarence’s tent, not bothering to look up as he set the tote by the glowing lantern.
“Evening, old-timer,” he said softly. “Sorry, I’m a little later than usual. I got off late from work.”
But it wasn’t Clarence who turned at the sound.
Waylan was there again with those hollow storm-gray eyes.
Hope sparked in Axel’s chest as the man’s guarded expression pulled up tight.
…like catching the flicker of starlight under a collapsing sky.
“Clarence is next door checking on Ms. Rhonda…she had a fever yesterday.” Axel blinked.
Oh no, not Ms. Rhonda.
Getting sick out here with even a common cold could be deadly.