Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Zane jumped him in a flurry of dark hair, his fists colliding with Roach’s jaw and shoulder. “Take that back!”
Roach pushed him away. “No! Won’t take back what’s true!”
“You’re so full of shit,” Zane roared and shoved his shoulder into Roach’s stomach as if he were a human projectile. “You are stuck in this dump! You’re the one bringing me down! You’re so damn stupid yourself!”
Roach yelped when Zane’s punch collided with the sutured cut on his stomach. “Bringing you down from what? You’re basically homeless! If anything, I’ve upped your living standards!” He grabbed Zane by the hair when Zane tried to hit him again. A part of Roach hoped that he wouldn’t be hurting himself since he didn’t have the same long locks, but his scalp still ached when he pulled on the tousled mane.
This situation was fucking ridiculous.
“Ouch! Let go, you giant chimp!” Zane cried, smacking Roach all too close to the crotch. The bastard had no sense of self-preservation.
Roach stepped away, then farther when Zane swung his fist at him. “Is this what you want?” He yelled and punched the brick wall of the library so hard the pain resonated all the way to his elbow.
Zane yelped like a kicked puppy and hugged the hand to his chest, eyes wide with shock. “I’m not homeless. I’m free,” he mumbled in the end as the sky above roared with thunder.
Roach cocked his head and made a point of grabbing his own little finger. “Can you still play with a broken pinky?”
His insides were lead when his gaze met Zane’s.
“S-stop…”
“So you stop fucking hitting me! You can’t rip a page out of a book at the library!”
“Says who?” Zane asked, right back to his high horse made of broken rules.
Roach stared at him in disbelief. Even he knew that much, and he wasn’t a cultured bookworm. “I give up. It’s not like you can glue it back in there. Let’s go get something to eat. I’ve got a discount at the motel diner.”
Zane blew a strand of hair out of his face before pulling up the hood of his rain jacket. “Prince Charming, huh? That hand job must have really been something.”
Roach’s cheeks flared with heat, and he pulled on his own hood to hide his face from the handsome, unhinged demon who would surely one day kill him just like he’d promised.
That hand job had been something.
In truth, he’d let Zane punch him once a day for the rest of his life if it meant he’d also be touched with such passion.
“You don’t have to use my discount if you don’t want to,” he grumbled and headed for the bike.
“Does that mean you’re not inviting me? Jeez, so cheap,” Zane said, but his boots tapped against damp asphalt, following Roach across the parking lot.
Could life get any more miserable?
“You just complained about the invitation! Make up your mind.” Roach glared at him with clenched fists, still aching from the punches. “Do you wanna fuck me or kill me?”
Zane’s brows lowered, and he stopped so close his warm breath reached Roach’s cheek. Roach had a bit more bulk, but they were almost the same height. “Changes depending on the situation. But be a good boy, and I might show mercy tonight.”
Roach should have barked something back at him, but he’d take any scrap Zane offered, and he knew it, so he just mounted the bike and waited until Zane pressed his crotch against him.
He had no doubt he’d be paying for that lunch too.
*
Zane fucking loved apple pie. He told Roach so, he’d ogled the dessert cabinet since they’d entered the diner, and then insisted he’d have it as his appetizer. With ice cream, because pie didn’t count without a creamy topping. He seemed to feel very strongly about it as he dug into the slice, humming with pleasure as if someone were giving him head under the table.
He’d demanded they stop at a gas station and got ingredients for his favorite meal—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—but he was more than happy to eat other things, it seemed, as long as he wasn’t the one paying.
“Roach,” he mumbled with his mouth full, gesturing with the spoon, “You’re doin’ good.” Around more people, he wore a smile, perfectly masking his murder-psycho-arsonist personality. Roach couldn’t help but be attracted to both sides of him.
“Hm? With what?”
Something—Zane’s foot—poked him under the table. “Scoring those brownie points. Or should I say… sex points?” Zane asked, lowering his voice.
At least they were in a booth. The diner was a large addition to the motel, and thrived on business from the truck stop. Decorated with cheap wood and posters of vintage cars, it mostly served basic, inexpensive food to hungry men who didn’t want to stop for longer than an hour.
Marty, the cook, had pretences to being called a ‘chef’ and had managed to fight their cheapskate boss, Culver, over some items on the menu. Along with burgers, steak, and tacos, Marty prepared weekly specials. Those could be hit and miss, but this time, it was waffles with fried chicken topped with popcorn and maple syrup, so Roach wanted to give the dish a shot.