Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“This is uh…,” my fingers flex in nervousness, “if I um…live here, right? You’re just giving me the rundown now in case you decide to pick me as your new roommate?”
“No.” McCoy immediately shakes his head. “You are my new roommate.”
It’s impossible not to smile widely.
A victory.
A real fucking victory.
This shit is long overdue, yet I’d be full of shit to say it doesn’t really fucking feel good regardless.
There’s no segue to his next question. “You know anything about cars?”
“Depends.” Reestablishing my composure is swiftly done. “We talkin' basic shit like oil changes on your average sedan or advanced shit like properly installing performance parts?”
And now he’s the one who grows a big-mouth grin. “The fact that you even know there’s a difference answers my question.”
I grunt a laugh.
“There’re a few openings at the local garage I take my girl’s car to-”
“You don’t handle all the repairs yourself?” The comment isn’t meant to sound cheeky but does. “Shit, I didn’t mean that like it probably sounded.”
Mirth remains in his expression. “I would handle all the shit myself if I was back home and still worked in my family’s shop.” He chuckles more to himself than to me. “Work seems like a really strong term for some of those days back then.” After another laugh, he explains, “I handle what I can for Jo’s car here in the apartment lot but take it to Big Roscoe’s for everything else. And he knows better than to try to fuck my girl over, if she has to drop off or pick the shit up without me.”
I’ll admit.
His die-hard devotion to his girl is painfully fucking familiar.
“Anyway, Big Roscoe needs a new mechanic. Hours would vary except for Sundays when they're closed. If you're interested, the job is yours.”
Impressed at his confidence I question, “You’ve got that kind of pull?”
“Big Roscoe owes me a favor or seven.” He shrugs with a cocky smirk that’s undeniably contagious. “Besides, if I get him a new mechanic – or at the very least someone to lend a hand around the shop –, it’ll keep his ass from continuing to fucking ask me every time I walk through the damn door.”
“You don’t want it?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I have a job and fucking love it.”
Unsure of the last time I had a legit job I merely stare on in continued disbelief.
Huh.
How does that shit really happen?
How does someone end up in a job that they actually fucking love versus one they need or tolerate?
And how does this guy – who is probably fucking younger than me – already have all his shit together with what looks like minimal effort?
What if I never get to that point no matter how fucking hard I work at it?
What if I just end up spending the rest of my life like some sort of fucking orphan on the outside of the candy store looking in? Waiting for one person to offer me an orange slice of sympathy or cherry sour of compassion?
What if this is that sweet bite, and I still somehow manage to fuck it up?
The weight of my building insecurities drops my head forward.
Shuts my eyes.
Cuts off my breathing.
Leads to me tugging at my hair in hopes of keeping it together and the increasing craving for a bong hit to soothe my anxiousness at bay.
“You alright, man?” McCoy cautiously asks.
“Yeah,” I quietly croak, though the feeling of my chest constricting is a clear objection. “Just uh…just need a minute is all.”
He doesn’t give it.
And part of me, the part of me that’s growing, and working so fucking hard to change, appreciate it.
“You made a mistake, Collins.”
The familiar sentence pushes out an annoyed huff from my parted lips.
“Or fuck, maybe you made lots of goddamn mistakes. I don’t know. But it also doesn’t fucking matter.”
Cocking my head his direction is instantly done.
“See, the problem is you live with the ugly fucking reality of wondering if that mistake – or those mistakes – will forever be who you are, or if the world will ever see you as anything more. Truth is, it’s not about anyone else. It’s about what you see in the fucking mirror every morning. If you can swallow that?” He innocently shrugs. “Then the rest of the bullshit will find its place.”
“Fuck,” I grumble in additional self- irritation, “am I that goddamn transparent?”
“No.” His face flashes a sympathetic smile. “I’ve just fucking been there.”
Honesty.
Generosity.
Seems like the right type of guy I should be around.
Pretty sure both Doc and Law would approve.
I clear my throat and continue to ignore the tingling request for nicotine that’s doing the tango across my tongue. “Move-in date?”
“This weekend.”
With a final nod, I stand and cross the short distance to the kitchen. “Thanks, McCoy.”
“Don’t make me regret this shit, Collins.”
“I won’t.”
Regret.
Now there’s one word I’m fucking tired of dealing with.