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)
It shouldn't be a big deal, but looking down at the pizza and noticing an absence of mushrooms and black olives on my side, and extra bell peppers on his, hits me like an emotional brick to the chest.
"Here," he says, handing over a small bag with the pizza company's logo, but I don't have to open it to know what's inside. He not only got the pizza right, but he also added several honey mustard packets for me.
Emotions invade, making it impossible to even look at the man, and with those feelings come a flood of memories from a night I only seemed to focus on part of.
My sister Dakota cooked for us at least once a week, but we'd only ordered pizza once.
Earlier that day, I had gone to his house. I wasn't thinking. I had just had a really bad day, and I was betting on our prior experiences together that he would be there for me when I just needed to be around someone who I thought cared about me. I went with no expectations, only hope, and left with my eyes burning with tears.
I was trembling, not knowing how I was going to be received after knocking on the door, only to come face-to-face with his adoptive father rather than Frankie. The man didn't even bother to try and keep the disgust off his face at the sight of me.
When I asked for Frankie, he didn't say a word to me. After he turned to go get him, I heard the man say he "never wanted to see Crawford Harmond's asshole son on his doorstep ever again."
I didn't bother to stick around and wait for Frankie to come to the door.
The Harmond and Jenkins families had bad blood, a deal gone bad two generations before we were even born, but that didn't stop the grudge from carrying on throughout the years.
The difference is that my parents would've never treated Frankie the way I was treated that day. My dad had tried on several occasions to end the bad energy and hatred between them, but it never went the way he wanted because the Jenkins were firm in their stance that the conflict remain.
Frankie was welcomed with open arms in my house. My parents didn't dote on him or anything because they just aren't the type to dote on anyone, but they never disrespected him or treated him differently because of who his parents were. I guess expecting the same treatment from the Jenkins family was just too much to ask.
Later that night, my bedroom door opened, and Frankie walked into my room.
I told him to get the fuck out of there, and the sadness in his eyes made me second-guess even uttering the words, but he didn't leave.
He simply turned off my bedroom light and closed the door.
Through the glow of the television, I watched as he crossed the room, crawled onto my bed, and wordlessly pulled down the front of my pajama pants before lowering his mouth to my cock.
He'd never even so much as hinted that he would ever do something like that, and to say that it came as a complete surprise is an understatement. The shock of what he was doing didn't stop me from coming in less than a minute, however.
Just as silently as he walked into my room, when he was done, he wiped his mouth, pulled my pajamas back up, and said he was hungry before asking me how I felt about pizza.
I could never forget the blow job, but until now, I had forgotten about the pizza.
There has to be something weird about the way my body responds to a lack of mushrooms and black olives that would make a sane person question my sanity without an explanation. That doesn't stop my cock from threatening to make itself known.
We each pull a couple of slices from the box and eat in silence. It makes me wonder whether he even recalls that night, or whether the food triggers memories for him. Either way, I'm grateful for the distraction the meal has brought. It seems to be just what I needed to get all the negative energy out of my system after waking up and feeling so out of place in my own skin.
We haven't had much substance to our conversations, and the ride back to the house after the rally was spent talking about the job. But after our conversation last night, I feel it's only fair for me to offer my condolences for his recent loss as well.
I wipe my mouth with a paper napkin before speaking.
"I wanted to say that I was sorry to hear about your dad," I say, not really feeling sorry at all.
I expect him to argue, to say that I shouldn't lie, especially talking about that asshole, but instead, the man swallows his food, his head turning in my direction in what seems like slow motion. The glare feels like it reaches right into the center of me.