Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Literally.
While Arley occasionally sees her condition in a positive light – getting lost in the way music comes alive and movies pop off the screen – she more often than not allows herself to be limited by it. Barricaded in her home or mine or the office due to the anxiety that comes from being able to see something other people can’t. The burden that comes from interpreting emotions in ways others don’t. She typically teeters between embracing and cursing the medical anomaly, which is why I love to see her first thing in the morning before there’s anything to accept or deny.
Those first few moments in the morning where she just…is.
Where she just accepts her.
My best friend shakes her head on a small giggle prior to asking, “How is it I’ve been here a million times and seriously had no idea that this place really is on some John Wick shit?”
“Because the best operatives know how to keep things hidden in plain sight.” An amused, impressed hum instantly slips free from her, and the sound has pride unconsciously pushing my shoulders back. “So, Angel Cake, where exactly were you stompin’ off to?”
“I wasn’t stomping.”
“It’s like you were doin’ the Texas Two-Step in boots fresh out the box.”
“You know I only own one pair of those.”
“I do know that ‘cause I was the one that bought ‘em.” And dream about seeing them slung over my shoulders every time she puts them on. “Where were you headed?”
“To the kitchen. I needed to…check my bag.”
Suspension has me instantly investigating, “Your bag or your phone?”
“Bag.”
“For?”
“Something.”
“What?”
“You…” her teeth steal a small nervous bite of her bottom lip, “don’t wanna know.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“Trust me, Cowboy, you don’t.”
The phrasing has me rising to my feet at the same time I grump, “And trust me, Angel Cake, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
“Fine.” Her hands are tossed defeatedly in the air. “I need to check my bag for lady products.”
“Makeup?” There’s no stopping my face from scrunching in annoyance. “You need to see if you have fuckin’ makeup? Really?” An eye roll is accompanied by a firm shake of the head. “Why? I’ve seen you without the shit a thousand times, baby. You look beautiful just the way you are.”
What appears to be a faint blush reddens Arley’s gorgeous complexion as she flicks a strand of hair away from her face. “That’s…um…not the type of lady product I was talking about, but I do appreciate the compliment.”
Rather than become embarrassed – like I probably should – I simply fold my arms across my bare chest and resume my interrogation. “Then what kind?”
“The other kind.”
“What other kind?”
“The other kind, Slater.”
“What other kind, Arlette?”
The displeasure from hearing her full name causes the unreciprocated love of my life to slam her hand sassily onto her hip. “The kind I need when I get a little too emo that’s not inspired by a My Chemical Romance playlist.”
“I don’t follow.”
“My period!” She shrieks loud enough that it damn near stumbles me back into my own bed. “I need to see if I have any emergency lady products for that!”
“Oh…” is mumbled under my breath before being repeated much louder and much more urgently, “oh! Lady products!”
“Yeah, I see that despite your Walker, Texas Ranger skills, you’re not the fastest cowboy at the rodeo this morning.”
Small snickers leave us both; however, I’m first to speak again after them. “You know I didn’t even realize you got one of those.”
Her frown is instant.
“I mean I know you get ‘em ‘cause you’re a woman and have…the woman parts and they…do the woman thing and uh…” the fumbling over my words is attached to uncomfortable cringing. “You obviously have that…time…but um…I jus’ never…have never…I don’t really…” Another round of wincing is displayed. “This is the first I’m hearin’ about it.”
Arley presents me with a confused, quirked eyebrow.
“From you,” I rush to explain. “You’ve never um…” clearing my throat occurs in order to bide me a moment to collect my composure, “brought it up before.”
“It’s not exactly, ‘pass the queso and fuck this ref’ conversation.” Her giggles should soothe my discomfort but don’t. “Besides, it only happens every three months or so and you’re typically not around.”
I want to be around.
Not because I’m into emotional torture but because…I don’t know. I always want to be around for her. Support her. Provide her whatever she needs, whenever she needs it. I want to be the one to take care of her and that doesn’t exclude when her hormones have lost their goddamn mind.
“When I know I’m close, I typically pack emergency products in my workbag; although, I’m a couple days sooner than I should be.”
“Stress and trauma to the body can do that. The unexpected spike of your cortisol levels can result in changes to your cycle.”
“Can’t pick up the context clues about the subject yet has the medical knowledge of a world renowned gyno just ready to go.” This time her teasing does get me chuckling. “You never fail to amaze me.”