Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
What the fuck?
He lifts a beer bottle to his lips and tips it back, taking a drink.
Trace?
My heart pounds against my chest. “Oh my God,” I murmur.
I can’t swallow. My throat is so dry.
I peer through the darkness. It’s not Trace. This one’s taller, though I can’t tell who it is exactly. The rooms are almost pitch black with the cloud cover overtaking the moon outside.
But great. Fucking awesome.
It’s got to be one of the Jaegers. Jeans. No shirt. Just like my dream.
I pull the blanket up over my bottom half, my skirt still hiked up.
I try to calm my breathing, rubbing my eyes. “Aracely slashed my tires,” I say. “I’ll be out of here as soon as I can get ahold of a tow truck.”
Whoever it is doesn’t say anything, and after a moment, I risk another glance. He still stands there.
Watching me, I think.
I squint, trying to make him out.
“What?” I blurt out. “Why are you staring at me?”
I sit up, keeping the blanket over me, and swing my legs over the side of the couch. “You can brag about this,” I tell him, feeling around in the dark for my shoes. “Someday, when I look, act, and smell like a pristine pair of fifteen-hundred-dollar heels, and I’m married to a lawyer or a banker who tastes like glue and campaigns for family values at church every Sunday, you can say you once watched me fuck myself on your couch, right?”
It’s almost too funny, and I would totally understand if he laughed. Should I do it again, so he can video?
I look back up at him, waiting for some kind of response. “Who is that?” I ask.
I can’t see his face. How long was he watching?
“Should I leave?” I almost whisper. “Walk home?”
He doesn’t say anything. But his head tilts to the side a little.
“Would you like to give me a ride?” I press. “Get me off your couch?”
He stays frozen.
Jesus. What the hell is his problem?
As if tonight hasn’t been bad enough. I’m stuck in Trace’s house, where I’m perfectly welcome as long as I’m going in the morning. The trouble is, I don’t feel much more comfortable at home.
“Trace is upstairs screwing someone else,” I say in a soft voice, watching the bottle hang at his side. “And it’s weird, because I don’t care.”
I look at him, shaking my head as the tears well in my eyes. I have no idea why I told him that. Maybe it’ll make him leave.
“I kept coming here, because I really had nothing else to do.” I laugh under my breath, but only for a second.
Needles prick my throat, and I lower my gaze, remembering the laughs Trace and I had. How I actually thought that, even though I didn’t love him, he wasn’t laughing like that with anyone else, because I certainly wasn’t.
“I guess …” I fist the blanket. “I guess I didn’t want to think it was meaningless, either, though, you know? Because then it would mean I was just as shallow as …”
I don’t finish the sentence. Mommy issues are boring.
“Why do I do that?” I say more to myself but still feel him there, watching me. “Why do things have to mean anything? Why is it either all in or empty? If it’s not enough, then it’s nothing to me. Why?”
My chin trembles, and I must seem so ridiculous to him. What do I have to cry about? “Empty …”
The word comes out as a whisper, and I can’t even see him breathe as the bottle hangs from his fingers and rests against his leg. He doesn’t leave, though.
I stand up and fold the blanket. “I can’t afford to go to college,” I drone on, “because my dad took all the money, and even if he hadn’t, the kids …”
I stop, staring at the floor as the tears spill over.
I choke out the words. “I can’t leave them alone with her.”
After what she’s trying to do to me, there’s no way in hell I trust her. Or my father. I hide that he now lives on Barony Lane, just a mile away with his girlfriend, and not in Atlanta like my brother and sister think. How else was I supposed to explain to them why their father suddenly doesn’t see them?
“My mother wants me to marry Jerome Watson.” It hurts to talk, the tears lodged in my throat. “A thirty-two-year-old corporate tax lawyer, whom I’ve met once, who’s looking for a pretty wife so he’ll want to fuck her over and over again, a healthy one who can take care of his house and stay knocked up for years to come, and a young one who’s too ignorant and naïve to challenge him.”
The tears keep coming, but I don’t feel sad. “I’m scared,” I breathe out. “I didn’t think making life better for the people around me would involve spending my life with someone I don’t love.”