Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I blink, letting the idea marinate in my brain for .02 seconds, then slap Griffin’s bicep—which is just as hard, or maybe even harder, than his chest. “That’s brilliant! Why didn’t you say so? We’re wasting time. Let’s go! Where’s the nearest pawnshop?”
Now I’m the one dragging him, although I have no idea where I’m going.
“Wait, wait,” he argues, planting his feet. Given he’s a solid foot taller than me, and outweighs me by . . . an undisclosed amount (because ladies don’t discuss their weight, especially after a few too many boxes of Girl Scout Cookies and a scoop of Chocolate Orgasm), I can’t budge him. He might as well be a rock or a mountain, which is admittedly kinda the same thing on a different scale.
He carefully peeks around the corner like he’s looking for something . . . or someone. I scoot up close to him, my side plastered to his, and peer around the corner, too, though I have no idea what I’m supposed to be searching for.
“Did you get recognized at Carolynn’s?” I whisper. “Some psycho bunny begging to have your babies right here, right now? Or a middle-aged fan who ‘played a little hockey in his day’ telling you how to take the season all the way, like that’s not literally what you’re trying to do?” I’m not making those scenarios up. They happen more often than you’d think. I’ve seen it with Dom, and with Griffin.
“Yeah. I was recognized,” Griffin says. But his voice sounds wrong. Maybe it’s because he’s actually talking to me and not grunting like I’m stealing his precious oxygen by being in his vicinity?
“What’s she look like?” I’m going with the obvious statistical guess on who we’re hiding from. An in-your-face fan? Griffin would tell him off. A woman throwing herself at him? The manners he occasionally has—with everyone other than me, of course—make him less likely to be rude to her.
“He. Two of them. Big guys. Right there.”
I look to where he’s pointing and see why he didn’t tell off the fans offering unsolicited advice—which is almost as bad as unsolicited dick pics. Not as bad, though, because at least you get a laugh out of the dick pics because it’s always the guys with weird-looking Leaning Tower of Pisa dicks who send pics. Seriously, who in their right mind sees that and goes, Hell yeah, call me Bugs Bunny, because I want me some of that carrot stick?
Point being, the fans . . . those guys . . . look like bad news partnered with oh shit and a dash of uh-oh.
“Good move on not telling them to fuck off,” I praise, nodding approvingly. “I don’t think they would’ve taken your ‘when was the last time you went to the playoffs, bud’ question as well as that last guy did.” Because, yeah, Griffin actually did that once and turned a lifelong fan into an enemy for life. Not that Griffin gave a shit.
“Glad you agree,” he says, sarcasm dripping from every word.
“Ah, there you are,” I say with a twisted smirk. “I wondered when the asshole was going to show back up. Like Hulk, you can’t contain him for long, can you?”
“Can we just go to the pawnshop?”
“It’s fine.” I wave a hand, dismissing him. “I’ll go by myself.” I take three steps—out of the alley, down the sidewalk, and then stop. Without turning around, I say, “You’re right behind me, aren’t you?”
There’s a grunt. It’s either Griffin answering my question or a bear, and given no one else is freaking out at a randomly appearing bear on a downtown sidewalk, I’m pretty sure it’s Griffin.
“Suit yourself. I’m going to find that ring. I have to.”
He mutters something that sounds like, “Yeah, we do.”
But that can’t be right. There is no we where Griffin and I are concerned, unless you’re grouping humans that live in the same city. That’s about all we have in common. Or people who Dominic Lee actually like, which is an admittedly small group. But beyond that, nothing, nada, no we to speak of.
Yet Griffin is still behind me when I find Paul’s Pawn, which is the closest pawnshop according to Google, only a couple of blocks away.
“Well, hellooo. You just made my day better, pretty lady,” the guy behind the glass display case purrs with a flirty smile as I walk through the pawnshop door. His eyes drop from my face to my feet, with extra-long stops at my breasts and hips, but that all disappears as Griffin enters after me.
Did I shut the door in his face? Yes, I did. Was it stupid and immature? Also yes. Would I do it again? A million times over. Didn’t stop Griffin even a microsecond.
“Shit. Sorry, man. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” the guy apologizes to Griffin, when he should be apologizing to me for being a skeevy jerk. Griffin doesn’t respond, and the guy clears his throat uncomfortably, sounding much more professional when he says, “How can I help you today?”