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Summary
Richie grabbed one of Carmy’s hands, placed his own wrist inside Carmy’s grip, and curled the trembling fingers closed. His pulse thrummed beneath Carmy’s fingertips, strong and steady.“Feel that?”“Mhm.”“Yep. Focus on that. Rhythm, Cousin. You can do it.”“Can’t.”“Can, fucko. You’re not even trying. Find the rhythm and breathe. One, two, in. Three, four, out. Like ballet or some shit. You love all that pansy rich people garbage.”“Talk. Please.”“I am fucking talking, dipshit,” Richie said, but conceded with a long-suffering sigh: “‘Kay, uh…oh, shit - ever tell you about the time your brother and I almost got arrested for chucking eggs at some lady off the L platform?"
Part 2 of an ongoing series. The Bear's public grand opening is upon them. Carmy isn't handling it well.
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