Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
I don't know why I expect anything different from him. I've done it to others myself, and the two times I've been on the receiving end of a man obsessed with me when the feelings weren't returned, I couldn't wait to put more than a little distance between us.
Being on this side of things sucks.
Wanting more from a man I'll never have leaves me feeling unsettled. It's creepy, my thoughts making me feel predatory and disgusting. No matter how many times I remind myself of the things we've experienced together, it doesn't negate the fact that wanting something from someone unwilling to give it makes me no different from the sex traffickers we're trying to stop. Acting on it, trying to manipulate him into wanting me the way I want him, is disgusting and exploitative.
My stomach rolls, sickness building in my gut as I turn to look at him, eyes locked on his strong jaw and familiar scowl.
"Frankie," I say, needing to get this shit off my chest.
I have a million things to say, and maybe getting it all off my chest will be the transition I need to move past his broody ass and get over this hope that has been built up in me at such a young age.
"Don't fucking call me that," he says, with more exhaustion than heat in his tone.
"We need to talk about what happened yesterday."
"That's the last fucking thing we need," he snaps, his eyes still locked on the road in front of us.
I could press the issue. I could start a huge fucking fight, but I know where that will lead.
Getting into it with this man on the second day of my new job won't end well for me, and there's still a little hesitation in that decision because maybe finding something else would be best for me in the long run.
The reasoning side of my brain, the one a little clouded by my past with him, knows better.
Cerberus is elite. They are the best at what they do, and despite my issues with Franklin Jenkins, I know I can help this cause the most with this team. There isn't another organization in existence that can do what they do and get the same results.
I take my eyes off the side of his face, and the fact that he seems to relax with a sigh of relief makes me want to continue to poke the bear, but instead, I sigh in frustration and vow to get this job over and done with as quickly as possible so I can be put on something else. Surely, they won't force us to work every job together. These team-up jobs are fewer and farther between than the ones where we would work alone.
Pulling up to the house brings a level of familiarity that I hate. I've never set foot on this property before, but the rundown look of it is common for this type of cover. The jobs I've done in the past had members who would sell all their worldly belongings for an extra hit of meth or on a good sale at the ammo shop. They don't tend to have nice things, aside from their stash of rations for survival if the shit hits the fan.
We have to look the part, and that means living with little to nothing until this job is done.
"Home sweet home," Frankie mutters as he shifts his face closer to the windshield to take in the house. "Looks like this place should've already been condemned."
"Which makes it perfect," I say and open my door.
The sooner I can get away from the scent of him, the sooner I can clear my head. "Let's get this thing unpacked."
I pull the truck keys from my pocket and walk toward the old beater already in the driveway. It was dropped off by one of the other guys at some point last night, and we'll need it once this moving van is returned, but it's in the damn way right now. Crappy houses like the one we're going to call home for however long don't exactly have much room for multiple vehicles.
By the time I get the truck parked on the street, Frankie is already backing the moving van into the driveway.
I meet him at the back of the van, and barely keep from scrunching my nose when he rolls up the door to access the belongings inside. The stench coming off all the used furniture is strong enough to knock a grown man over.
"Frank—"
I cut the name short when he growls in warning.
"Zeus," I correct, but then fall silent again.
"What?" he asks, a level of exhaustion in his voice that I feel on a molecular level.
I shake my head. "I don't even remember what I was going to say."
"Probably for the best," he mutters. "Can we get this shit unloaded so maybe it'll air out some?"