Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Statistically speaking, flight – aka being on the constant move around the country – has led to me still being alive. Fleeing every time I swear I can feel that monster breathing in my direction has kept me from returning to his clutches, from needing to search my clothes for tracking devices, from having to worry if this bottle of water or that cup of tea has been laced with something to keep me sluggish and submissive and silent during the long days and even longer nights.
Flight works.
The question is for how much longer.
Is continuously hightailing it like I’m part of the Fast and Furious crew – damn Kipp for his obsession with those movies – really as sustainable as I make it out to be?
The data says no.
That each time I bolt, I significantly decrease my chance of living another year.
Six months.
Four days…
However, on the other side of the spreadsheet, staying put – or what the men who call me theirs refer to as fighting – has high value.
For one, I’m not alone anymore. And history has left behind many examples of how strength can be found in numbers. Right here, right now, Brad would not only be outmanned, he’d be outgunned and outwitted too.
This town isn’t one he owns.
These people don’t belong to him.
They belong to each other.
Their loyalty is to their small, close-knit population above everything else.
Kipp and Nolan are part of that population.
Community.
And since my stranded ass has been here, they’ve gone to extreme lengths to fuse me into their fold even if it isn’t always an entirely conscious effort.
Suzie insists on talking to me exclusively about quirks of dog breeds after I told her that Basenji’s don’t bark so much as make an air horn siren sound when alerting their owner to danger. I did leave out the deets about why I know that shit. Adding in my neighbor in Florida had a dog like that until it alerted me to Brad being outside my window too many nights didn’t seem like the best idea. She was so shook up by the bunny story, I couldn’t take away her reason for living by revealing what he did to Tonto.
Besides her, Wendy Jo adores that I’m always willing to be her pie guineapig anytime we swing by to pick up a late breakfast or dessert for the night, and Posie who we always pass by coming or going from The Dig Site goes out of her way to show me something new she found in the store that she thinks would match an item I’ve already got.
Not sure if she’s just anxious for a gal pal or using any excuse she can to be around Kipp.
Needless to say, fighting versus leaving has never looked so possible.
Plausible.
Felt so fucking real.
I don’t wanna lose that.
Them.
Tabbing out of their accounting program where I have so much more to still fix, I light heartedly begin, “Speaking of other people who don’t wanna touch you-”
“That’s not true.”
“-where is The Kid?” My mirth-filled gaze locks onto his. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping him? Isn’t that why you decided to stick around on this gray and cloudy Tuesday morning instead of pulling people out of the literal mud?”
“I’ll have you know I am helping.”
“Annoying me isn’t helping.”
“That’s not true, either.”
He’s thrown a sarcastic smirk that’s followed by me tucking away the pen I was using to write on my wrist into my messy bun beside my Mickey Mouse one.
“It’s lunch,” Nolan casually informs, hands finding their way to his pockets. “When we’re both in the shop, we take it together.”
“Yet I only see you.”
“That’s because he’s losing the wrap up convo battle to November.”
“It’s October.”
“John November.” He doesn’t bother hiding his crooked grin. “The local postman.”
“Does that make him more important than the mailman?”
“He is the mailman. But he prefers to be called a postman. Believes it holds more dignity.” The scrunching of my nose in silent objection gets a small chuckle. “Mind your elders, Rabbit.”
“I think you’d look good in a shock collar, Mutt.”
He lets his teeth sink into his bottom lip on a low grumble.
“You’re thinking about me in a collar now, aren’t you?”
“Collar, yes. Leash, no.”
Amusement tilts my grin at the same time I rise to my feet. “I’ll wear one if you do.”
“Fuck no.”
“Guess we’re on the same page then.”
Shooting him a wink as I pass by receives me the playful pop to the ass, I knew it would.
Pretty sure the two of them are the reason I’m suddenly so handsy.
I honestly can’t remember a time when I wanted to have and give one area so much attention.
Seriously.
No one in this relationship can bend over or stroll by too slow without someone else helping themselves to a handful.
In a sick and twisted way, it’s becoming our love language.
Except not love.