Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“That doesn’t sound that nutritious, woman.”
“It is. There are bananas in it. That’s healthy.”
“You’re shittin’ me right now, aren’t you, Gabby?”
“I’m just saying if you want me to eat, that’s your best chance,” I argue.
He gives me a disgusted look but ruins it by smiling at me. “I’ll go get you some pudding, then.”
“In the alternative, you can just go back out and enjoy your evening and I’ll go to bed,” I suggest. He shakes his head, making it clear he’s not going to give me that option.
“I’ll be back,” he murmurs like some badass terminator that normally would make me tell him he’s a bad version of Arnold Schwarzenegger. I don’t. Mostly because he’s not a bad version. King could never be a bad version of anyone. He stands alone. The man might be the only true friend I’ve ever had in my life.
I watch him leave and then walk over to my bed and collapse on it. I feel tired down to my bones. I can’t give into it, though, because I know King is coming back. So, instead, I allow myself a minute to close my eyes and wonder if there will ever be a time when my life isn’t so exhausting and difficult. I’m hoping Denver will be different, but I’m not holding onto much hope. Still, if I can make sure my little jellybean lives a life that’s easy and stress free, I’ll be happy.
I rub my stomach. That’s all that will ever matter to me.
Chapter 8
King
“You’re right,” I tell Gabby, who is mostly zoned out.
Her eyes are on the movie that’s playing on her television. I get the feeling she’s not really watching it at all. Still, she ate some sausage and peppers that Dragon fixed over the grill and all of Nicole’s banana pudding, so I couldn’t complain. I got food in her belly—which was the main goal. I’m reclined on her bed, my back to the headboard, a pillow tucked between. Gabby is much the same, her hand on her stomach, eyes locked on a television that again, I’m not sure she’s even seeing.
“Hm?” she hums, the small sound vibrating between her lips.
“Gabby?”
“Yeah?” she says, still not taking her eyes away from the television.
“Look at me,” I instruct.
It takes her a minute, and it seems harder than it should be, but eventually she turns to stare at me. “What?”
“I said you were right.”
She blinks and slowly her eyes clear as she focuses on me. “I was right?” she asks, to which I nod affirmatively. “What was I right about?” she asks, making me smile.
“Nicole’s banana pudding is the bomb.”
“Told you,” she says with a smile.
“You did. Although you also lied.”
Her body jerks and I see the panic in her eyes. I don’t like that look on her face and can’t pretend to understand why it appeared, but I ignore it for now. I figure Gabby has a lot of landmines in her head that can be triggered at any time. I know, because I do, too.
“I didn’t lie,” she denies at once, her body tight, and it dawns on me that she’s thinking the worst from my words.
I reach out and tag her hand, wrapping it around hers. I force her fingers to separate as I intertwine mine with them and squeeze. “You did.”
“I di—”
“You told me Nicole’s pudding was healthy because it had bananas in it. Woman, there were no bananas in that shit.”
“It all tastes like bananas though, and that’s the important part.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “I’m not quite sure I can agree with that. Are you engrossed in this movie or just lost in your head?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Nicholas Cage does great movies.”
“Uh …”
She laughs, already knowing what I’m going to say. “Okay, Nicholas Cage does two kinds of movies. They’re either really good or really bad. There is no in-between.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep, and this one, Con Air, is probably his best.”
I find myself grinning again as I put my now empty container of banana-less banana pudding on the nightstand. I take a minute to reflect exactly how I’m feeling. I’m in a room that is like almost every other clubhouse bedroom I’ve been in. It consists of a queen-size bed, two nightstands with matching, cheap-ass lamps, and a television sitting on a chest that is about six drawers high. The walls are covered in a neutral, shitty paint color that looks more dirty than clean. There’s a flag with the club’s logo on the wall, with a small closet to the left, and a bathroom attached to the right. That’s it. There’s no window, and it’s dark as hell despite the lamp on the nightstand shining and the television going. It might be like other rooms I’ve been in, but I feel more at peace than I have in a really fucking long time—maybe even years. I definitely feel better than I have since Shelby began whatever shit she began that I never understood and probably never will. I also think it has more to do with my company than anything else. Things are easy with Gabby. The two of us understand one another. She doesn’t expect shit from me, and I don’t from her either. There’s nothing sexual, no deep emotions. It’s just a mutual respect. She’s like one of the guys, but a hell of a lot prettier to look at. Or rather, she usually is. Right now, she looks drained and wrung out. Now that I have her fed, it’s time to make sure she sleeps sound.