Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Brady?” Nothing is up with us. I don’t even know him well. “Nothing. It’s an auction, and he bid, same as Miles. I need some air.”
That just leads to them questioning me about Miles again.
It makes me irate that Miles didn’t even start that fire, yet people will forever hold it against him. Even if they knew the truth, I’m not sure if that will ever change. It’s like all some people want is to punish others and not give them the space to grow and change. How can anything get better if we hold his mistakes against him forever?
Thankfully, they let me go, and I head to the back door leading outside. I don’t know if that’s where Miles went, but I’m assuming it is.
I shove open the back door and rush outside, pulling a deep breath into my lungs.
It only takes me about three point five seconds to spot them—Miles and Tatum over by the back edge of the parking lot, which abuts a wooded area. Miles is pacing, and this protective instinct fills me, propelling me toward them. Miles doesn’t need me to protect him, especially not from Tatum, who’s been a good friend to him despite all his troubles, but again, I want to be the one with him. I want…more, and that’s a whole-ass mindfuck I don’t have time or care to dissect right now.
Miles bends over, hands on his knees, clearly trying to catch his breath. Tatum is close but not touching him, seems unsure what to do. I had some experience, so it was easier for me.
As if feeling me there before he can see me, Miles turns toward me, eyes locking with mine. The panicked expression is still there, like he’s trying not to freak out, to hold it together for Tatum.
“Hey,” I say with a smile, trying not to sound like I’m freaking out too. “You know, if you wanted to take me on a date, all you had to do was ask.”
“Fuck you,” he manages to get out, not angrily, but not fully like he’s playing either. No, that’s not right. It’s clear he’s trying to be light and playful but having a hard time pulling it off.
“Breathe with me, Miles. Deep breath in.” I press my palm to his cheek to give him some skin-to-skin contact, then breathe with him. Miles obeys, pulling air into his lungs. “Now deep breath out.” We exhale together. “What do you see?”
“You,” he says, and damned if my heart doesn’t shoot to the fucking sky.
“What do you smell?”
“You.”
“What do you feel?” I brush my finger against his cheek, my other hand finding a home on his hip.
“You.”
Without turning away from Miles, I tell Tatum, “I have this under control.”
“I was just trying to help.”
“I know, but we’re good,” I tell him, then to Miles, “Breathe with me again. Focus on me.”
He nods, his features beginning to relax as I keep contact with him, the two of us breathing in sync.
Tatum stands there for a moment—surprised? Maybe protective of his friend?—but then I hear footsteps receding.
“That’s it. We got this.” I lead Miles to one of the curb stops at the head of a parking spot, and we sit down on it together.
I don’t want Miles to have to deal with anxiety or panic attacks. I don’t want anything to be hard on him. He’s had too much of that in his life. But I also can’t describe what it does to me that he trusts me, that I can help, that being with me calms him, even if it’s only because I know how to help him focus.
He’s stiff when I wrap an arm around him, but then he relaxes against me, head on my shoulder, letting me in. I give him some time, knowing I’ll have to be the one to start the conversation, so when I think he’s doing better, I say, “If you didn’t want me to do the auction, you could have told me.”
“I didn’t know I didn’t want you to do it until it was time. And then it got even worse because Brady clearly wanted you, and he’s so fucking perfect, everything someone like you should have…”
“I don’t want him. Maybe perfect isn’t my thing.”
He pulls away and looks at me, making me realize how that sounded.
“You know what I mean. I’m not saying you’re not perfect—”
“I’m not.”
“No one is.” I shrug. “He’s not my type, though. I like assholes with a secret heart of gold who would risk the wrath of the law and the frats to be there for a friend…and also has a great dick, knows how to work it, and makes me want to be his good boy.”
That pulls a small smile out of him, like I hoped it would.
“Even if I come with red flags? Because I really wanted to beat his ass for even looking at you,” he admits.