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Am I obsessing over minor details to distract myself from all the things in my life I can’t control? Yes. Will I continue to do so? Also yes.
Revealing that I “accidentally” fucked his sister would be the equivalent of starting World War III.
Pausing in the doorway, I grant myself the briefest moment to observe her, still taken aback by how fucking pretty she is. I’ve never used that word to describe a girl before. Hot, sure. Cute, sometimes. But she’s more than either of those. She’s pretty in the way that catches your attention and refuses to let it go.
Like I have a choice. Much as my brother likes to pretend otherwise, he’s a bit of a diva.
“I’m going to marry her.” Chase leans a shoulder against the stainless refrigerator, watching his girlfriend Bailey on the other side of the room.
Edging via audiobook. That’s a new one.
“Name it, and it’s yours.”
“I mean this in the nicest possible way, Ser, but you’re the meth raccoon in this scenario.”
“Rookie error, Tink.” My voice is low; raspier than normal. “Don’t pick fights you can’t win.”
“You like me,” she says in a singsong voice. Obviously. But what can I do about that? Sweet fuck all, that’s what.
“I’m going to fuck you nice and hard, and you’re going to be quiet for me like a good girl, aren’t you?”
“For the love of hockey and all that is holy.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Tell me you’re not fucking Carter’s sister.”
Hades: FaceTime me, then. Tinker Bell: Only if you’re a good boy. Hades: If it means I get to watch you make yourself come, I’ll be a fucking saint.
Reid skates over, cross-checking Burgess out of the way. “Back the fuck off.”
“Touch our goalie again, and you’ll be leaving on a stretcher,” Reid spits.
I'm in love with Reid
It’s like a form of competence porn, the appeal of which I can’t fully explain. All I know is, he looks like he knows what he’s doing, and it’s hot.
Amen
“Wear whatever you want, Tink. I know how to fight.”
He looks like he’s strongly considering homicide as a valid course of action.
My unspoken question is, can we throw money at this to help her? Sky’s the limit.
He comes to a halt in his bedroom doorway, clutching a glass of water in each hand, and stares at me standing before him in nothing but his red jersey. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. I think he might be glitching again.
My gaze travels lower, to the list of dates etched along his lower ribs on the same side. My birthday. The date we met. The date we moved in together permanently after I graduated. And a blank space below for all the milestones to come.
