Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Maks did the same, a few days later, and we haven’t heard anything since. I have no idea if my family holds ill will toward us. Maks has told me he’s worried, and that at some point, they may try to make our lives hell for it. He thinks my father may be planning something.
I have no idea if he’s right.
I had barely spoken to my father during all of my years at Crimson to begin with. Ever since my mother died, at Sunday dinners I just felt like a ghost.
My father didn’t want me anymore.
The loss of Maks probably hurt him even more.
But if they do come after Maks, threaten him, or try to force him to do anything for them again, I will be ready and fucking waiting to make sure they never succeed.
“You’re good at that,” Tate tells Maks, watching him firmly roll out the pie crust. “Those Petrov muscles.”
“Yo, you guys have muscles, too,” Logan tells Tate. “Landrey muscles.”
Maks grins. “Thanks, guys. Pounding out this pie dough is definitely the most action I’ve seen in months, so I appreciate it.”
“Not fucking possible,” I tell him. “Six months ago, you told me you were… what, drowning in cum?”
“Drowning in dick,” Maks corrects me. “Jesus, Roman. You’re so graphic.”
“Cum is not more graphic than cock.”
Everyone else in the kitchen is snickering and laughing at us.
“Okay, show of hands,” Maks says. “Who thinks talking about drowning in cum is more explicit than saying drowning in dick?”
To my horror, I watch every hand in the room go up.
I wave my hand through the air. “Bullshitters. All of you.”
Tate blows me a kiss. “Sorry, my love.”
I cross over to the other side of the island to whisper in his ear. “Remind me to punish you later. Extra hard. Think you can take an extra finger next to my cock in your ass? While your wrists are chained to your bed.”
“Stop,” he murmurs. “Do not make me hard while I’m baking. That’s a fast track to a bad pie dough.”
The rest of the guys get distracted by the big-screen TV on the far wall for a while, watching replays of old Thanksgiving Day football games while Luke analyses the plays.
Tate, Maks, and I stay by the counter, finishing off the tops of the pies.
“I hate you for reminding me about that, by the way,” Maks tells me. “Drowning in dick was nice. I miss it.”
“Give me a break. You could find a hot guy any night of the week.”
“True,” Tate says. “I can think of, like, six guys back on campus who would probably beg to get railed by you. You’re not quite as hot as Roman, but you’d make people very happy, too.”
“Shucks, Tate. Thanks,” Maks says. “It’s not just about hookups. It’s…”
He trails off, but I know what he’s thinking.
Maks has been struggling to figure out what direction he wants to go in, now that he’s no longer in the family business.
“Maks. Do you know that I am friends with the head of campus security at Crimson?” I ask him.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“The Crimson security is absolute shit, to be honest. But I do know they fired one of those shit security guards last month, and they’re in need of a new one.”
“Are you saying I should be a shitty security guard?”
“You are fucking kidding me, right? You would be the best security guard Crimson College has ever seen in history.”
Maks nods, looking down at the counter. “What kind of things do the Crimson security guards do?”
“Make sure the students are safe, both from each other and themselves. You’ll see some wild things, Maks. But how bad could it be? It’s not…”
“Not the Bratva,” he murmurs.
“Right.”
He is silent for a while, but the fact that he doesn’t refuse immediately makes me know that he is considering it.
And I know it would be good for Maks.
Tate nods. “I know I’d feel a billion times safer with you there rather than one of those guys who stand around playing slot machine games on their phones.”
“You will have the job,” I say firmly.
The sound of the front door swinging open fills the house. A moment later, football history walks through the door.
“I smell cinnamon,” Christopher Landrey says as he walks over to Tate, putting his arm around him in a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Hey, Dad,” Luke calls over from the area by the TV. “They just showed one of your old highlights!”
“Glad to hear it,” Christopher says.
“Dad, this is Roman, my boyfriend,” Tate tells him, smiling. “Roman, this is my dad.”
Christopher reaches out to shake my hand, but then thinks again and comes in for a hug.
“It’s a true pleasure, Roman,” Christopher says. “You protected my son’s life. I have to say that I’ve been struggling to even begin thinking of how I can ever repay you.”