Azrah gave a sly smile. “Was it Doctor Who again? Robin met him last night,” she added to Heath.
“Maybe. I didn’t get the chance to have a good look, did I? Thanks to you two.” Robin glared at her. “Anyway, I said he reminded me of Doctor Who. Not that he was Doctor Who. Who doesn’t exist, by the way. And is also a woman right now.”
Heath stared dreamily into the middle distance. “Ah, she’s another strong woman, that one. Knows what she’s doing with a welding torch.”
“Okay, I’m going to have nightmares about your sex life tonight.” Robin took a thoughtful sip of his rum and Coke.
“Asshat?” So, they were throwing down, were they? “Well maybe only put on twenty bucks worth next time.” Stone slipped on his boxers, figuring he’d shower the Christian Dior, hundred and thirty buck rank off once the jerk left. “And let some hair grow back between your legs, why don’t ya? It’s like going down on an eel or a Ken doll.”
“I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.” Joe Hollywood was at the exit. “I, on the other hand, could barely find the tree for the forest. Wouldn’t hurt you to take a machete to the bush once in a while, would it?”
📚 From Friday: His image was startling, and he understood that. Still, every double-take, every sharp breath that occurred as he passed felt like a branding iron to his heart, hurting him and marking him as different.
📚 From Tuesday: The perfect man, what a silly, childish notion. And yet, in the darkest hours of the night when he found it hard to sleep, spending far too much time staring up at the blank ceiling like it might magically produce answers to all of life’s most baffling questions, he ached for something more. Especially as of late, yet what exactly more was, he didn’t have a clue.
📚 From Tuesday: He could allow himself to fade, to wither and die. It would be easy, a couple more days, and he’d be gone, but there were moments worth living for. Moments when the woods were peaceful, when the animals shared their serenity, when the stream was warm and the moss soft under his body.
📚 From Sunday: Jordan nodded, still not looking, and he completely ignored the warmth of Beckett’s fingers as they slid over his. As soon as he could, Jordan took a slight step away. Being so close to Becket was a little unnerving.
📚 From Thursday: Was that how happiness worked? Was it a quantifiable thing that could be accumulated? For all Mac’s possessions and accolades, the accomplishments he could point to, the money safely squirreled away in various profitable ventures, he couldn’t say he was happy or that he’d be happier for having more of it. Happy was a sense he got when he was with Hailey—a sort of potential. Like he could be happy with Hailey if only he deserved him.
📚 From Wednesday:
He was familiar with the lotions and pastes for everyday hygiene—he used many of them himself—but what on earth was a toilet tissue? He’d quickly gathered its approximate use from a very flustered sales assistant who’d looked back at him like he was a heathen as she scurried away, but why the bewildering array of options?
📚Reading 7 short stories this week on the treadmill:
– His Steady Heart by Nell Iris
– A Leather and Tea Morning by K.L. Noone
– Forever Yours by Kassandra Lea
– Slither by T.A. Creech
– Aim Higher by JL Merrow
– Finder’s Keepers by Rob Rosen
– The Gate by A.L. Lester
“Oh, am I dreaming?” Padraic may have been musing to himself, but Raff wasn’t about to pass up the chance to learn what he now had to know. He would be asylum bound by morn, if matters progressed apace.
“Would you be dreaming about me?” Well, really. Raff was only human.
Treadmill Goals/Tracking Get on the treadmill (or equivalent exercise) daily Pace is fine at 30 min/mile, although I may up it on occasion Time range between 30 minutes and 1 hour per day Distance 1-2 miles per day Read the chosen book, which I won’t allow myself to read outside of my treadmill time, hopefully motivating me to reach or exceed the above goals (exception…at the end of the week …
“Now, what am I going to do with you…?” The rogue mused, lifting a forefinger to his lips in a parody of deep thought, as he drew to a halt before Padraic. The threat inherent in that phrase thrilled down the Duke’s spine, which was oh, so wrong; he should be plotting his escape or…or weaving the perfect words to ensure his prompt release. Yes, that was it.
“Sure,” Robert said easily. “I’m not the heroic type.”
“Not you,” Mable agreed. “Not being heroic is how you got shot in the Phillippines.”
“Everybody got shot, so that doesn’t count.” Robert shrugged into his coat, took his hat, and limped toward the front door. “Anyway, it was my leg that got shot, not my Philippines. My Philippines still work fine.”
Life was now an endless loop of nothingness and numbers in a relentless onslaught of darkness. Its soundtrack issued instructions or imparted information in benumbing monotones, even the bloody clock. It was uncannily akin to being addressed by a Dalek; Leo couldn’t help but hope that it might, one day, declare that it was time to exterminate him.
🎸 The press would soon weary of their story, surely? There must have been one helluva dearth of news the day their story broke. With a bit of luck, the moment something more salacious happened along, they’d scuttle off after it like ferrets up a trouser leg. 🎸