Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
We’re gripping one another, clutching hard like the tattered canvas beneath us is on the verge of ripping apart, an endless abyss beneath it with a path straight to hell.
Our foreheads stick together. Our labored breathing calms down. We stay like this for seconds. Then minutes.
Neither of us wants to pull away. To break the spell cast on this moment.
Eventually, I pull away. Lev is the one who has been shirtless for hours, shielding me from the frosty bite of the night, growing cold atop me.
“We should go.” My lips move over his.
“We should,” he agrees, closing his eyes. “But I’d rather run away with you.”
“I’m tired of running away. One thing college doesn’t teach you is that your problems always outpace you.” I push him off softly, kissing the edge of his shoulder when he rolls on his back next to me. “Besides, I don’t know if we can ever be together now, Levy. You’re fighter jet pilot material. I’m damaged goods.”
He turns to me sharply, the thundering ferocity of his scowl telling me he’s in complete disagreement.
He grabs my jaw, angling it so I look into his eyes. “Damaged goods are still goods. It’s the dents that make them special. That make them them. Survivors. Molded by their experience. Be proud of your scars, Dove. Because where you see hardship, I see opportunity. Where you see imperfections, I see growth. Where you see failure, I see effort. Where you see despair, I see hope.” He sucks in a breath. “You aren’t just good enough—sometimes you feel too good to be true.”
In that moment, on a dirty, old canvas, in the middle of the woods, in the arms of the boy I love, I realize that eventually, at the end of all this, no matter what happens, I will survive.
And that maybe, that will be enough.
CHAPTER 29
Lev
Miserable Fact #9,228: People are more likely to die by suicide than by homicide in New York City.
I stare at my laptop screen, snakes slithering under my skin. I’m trembling, even though I have no reason to be.
I’m wearing a hoodie, it’s a thousand fucking degrees outside, and I’m one hundred and ninety-five pounds of pure muscle.
Still, my guts are twisting inside out. Because I can’t bring myself to click on that little blue button. The one that would send my application to the Air Force Academy.
APPLY
It’s the day of the deadline. My last chance. I’ve filled it out carefully, uploaded all my shit—SAT, grades, résumé—all I have to do is hit send. Then why can’t I?
It was last night’s encounter with Bailey that gave me the strength to even think I could do this. She was strong, resilient, open, hopeful. She’s a true fighter—and who knows? Maybe so am I.
Click on the apply button.
“You should do it,” a feminine voice encourages me behind my back, and I almost hit the fucking ceiling jumping in my seat.
I’m in the kitchen. Dad is at Uncle Vicious’s place, so I figured I had a few hours to myself.
Of course, Dixie is here. Dixie is always here, on a silver platter, in case Dad changes his mind about getting his dick sucked.
Fine. That’s not fair. She’s good people. I just wish she’d stop the recent trend of shoving her nose into my business.
I minimize the browser, shooting her a sideways glance. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“The deadline.” She produces that egg-shaped moisturizer from her bag, running it over her lips. “Isn’t it soon?”
“Today,” I grumble. Guess she already saw the website. No point in being coy.
“You’re going to miss it if you don’t apply now.” Captain Obvious breezes past the door to the kitchen table, which is when I see she has a tray with two cups of coffee from that bomb-ass bakery down the street.
She slides one to me from across the table. “Three shots, two sugars, a dash of half-and-half. Did I get it right?”
“Yeah.” I bring the coffee to my lips and take a sip, frowning suspiciously at her. Why does she know my coffee order? “Do you have a crazy wall with my fingerprints, saliva sample, and surveillance footage of me in your office?” I squint.
She shakes her head. “No, no.” Then, after a pause. “I keep it at home. I’m not an amateur.”
I force out a laugh.
“You’re Knight’s brother, and anyone who’s important to him is important to me,” she explains.
“I see we reached the cheesy Hallmark-speech portion of this visit.” I lean back in my chair.
I really ought to stop being such a tool bag to her. It’s not her problem I have unresolved mommy issues brought on by anxiety about my best friend.
“I’ll wrap it up quickly.” Dixie drums her burgundy fingernails over the table, smiling brightly. “As I said, you should do it. Your dad will understand.”
“Like hell he will,” I snort. “You heard him yourself. He said—”