Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
But then, he isn’t used to being the smaller man in a room. Drake is a massive guy, but Tank is even bigger, a fact my ex takes a moment to soak in, his eyes flicking over Tank’s imposing frame, lingering on the tattoos visible beneath his t-shirt, his scars, the set of his jaw.
“And who are you?” Drake asks, but his “tough guy” voice is thinner than usual.
“Doesn’t matter who I am. It matters who she is. And she’s a business owner who’s busy and deserves to have her boundaries respected.” His tone—calm, matter-of-fact, but with that undercurrent of steel—sends a shiver down my spine.
Or maybe it’s the fact that someone’s bothering to stick up for me besides me that has my knees feeling weaker than they did a moment before. My entire life, I’ve been the only one who had my back. I moved around too much as a kid to make ride or die friends, and my parents were the kind of people who preached “turning the other cheek” religiously.
And I agree. Most of the time, I’m a lover, not a fighter. I almost always turn the other cheek. But when I can’t, when I have to draw a line in the sand…
Well, it’s always hard. Stressful.
But when Tank does it?
It’s weirdly not anxiety-provoking at all. It’s actually kind of nice.
Drake exhales a sound somewhere between a snort and laugh. “Seriously, Steph? You’re going to let this guy speak for you? That doesn’t seem like the proud black queen, I know.”
I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. If another white guy never calls me a “proud black queen” again it’ll be too soon. Especially Drake. You don’t get to ignore my request to leave me alone and praise my “proudness” at the same time.
I’m just done with his nonsense. Totally done.
I point to the door. “Go. Now. If you do, I’ll call you when I’m done with class. If not, I’m blocking you, Drake.”
“But Steph, I—”
“Goodbye, Drake,” I cut in, widening my eyes, hoping he can see that I mean business.
After a tense beat, he lifts his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll be up late. Call whenever.” He backs toward the door, shooting one last glare Tank’s way before he turns and charges through the lobby, slamming the door behind him.
When he’s gone, I exhale, willing my jaw to relax and my shoulders to drop away from my ears. “Thanks for the back up,” I say.
Tank’s expression darkens. “Your ex?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He come by unannounced a lot?”
I shrug, trying to make light of it. “Sometimes. He’s just…persistent, but ultimately harmless.”
Tank makes a skeptical sound, but doesn’t press further. Instead, he nods toward the studio door. “Want me to stick around until your next class gets here? Just in case he decides to come back?”
“Oh no, of course not,” I say, moving into the lobby with a forced laugh. “I’m fine, honestly. And I apologize. This isn’t the first impression I want to make with a new student. Things aren’t usually this dramatic around here.”
“You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, moving in front of the welcome desk as I slip behind it and wiggle the mouse, stirring my computer to life. “And you made a good first impression. Aside from the chanting stuff at the end.”
I smile. “Not a fan of making noise?”
“Not that kind of noise. I’ll do the twice a week one,” he says, plopping his credit card down on the desk. “I prefer to know what I’m saying.”
I arch a brow as I run his card and quickly get him set up in the system. “Well, we can talk about the meaning of ‘om’ sometime, if you want. It’s actually pretty beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, making my jaw go slack with shock. “And too good for that guy. Don’t let him fuck with you if you don’t want to be fucked with.” He motions toward his lower half. “I’ll wash the pants at home and bring them back next time. Thanks for the loan and the class. It was good.”
And then, before I can pull myself together, he turns, collects his things, and walks out the door.
I stand, still gaping as he dons his helmet, swings confidently onto his motorcycle, and rumbles away, all without sparing me another glance.
“Well, shit,” I mutter, my heart racing.
Mr. Sniffles waddles over, looking up at me with a smug expression on his wrinkled face as if to say, “I knew you couldn’t resist that guy. You’re a sucker for the broody ones.”
“Don’t judge me,” I say, bending to scoop him into my arms. “I’m going to resist him. He’s just…sexy.” I exhale. “Really sexy.”
Mr. Sniffles snorts in what sounds like agreement.
I grin. “Yeah? You think so, too? Were the neck scratches that good?”
He sneezes. Then yawns, letting out a high-pitched honking sound from his flat nose that summons a laugh from Zelda, a friend from my early days in Portland, as she breezes through the door.