Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
The place is almost exactly the way I left it, right down to the track ribbons hanging on a robe hook on the back of the closet door and the bulletin board on the wall overflowing with photos of me partaking in all those extracurriculars Liz and Michael pushed on me to keep me busy and out of trouble.
It almost worked.
Until I met Trey McAvoy.
Talon leaves the suitcases by the bed before making his way to the bulletin board, examining the pictures.
“When were you going to tell me you were a cheerleader?” he asks.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I leave that out?” I ask, batting my lashes. “Silly me.”
“Just seems odd given the fact that I play football.”
“I don’t bring it up because it’s ancient history. It’s not a part of me anymore,” I say. “It was a thing I did for a few years when I was obsessed with fitting in, dying for people to like me. That girl,” I point to a picture of me in my cheerleading uniform, “cared more about what other people thought of her than what she thought of herself. She equated being used with being loved. That girl … that perky little cheerleader … no longer exists.”
“There you are.” Aunt Liz clears her throat from the doorway behind us. “I was wondering where you two were hiding. Why don’t you come join us in the family room for mocktails and appetizers?”
She toys with the gold cross pendant around her neck, her attentive gawk passing between us, lingering on me after a bit as if to say, “You know the rules.”
And I do.
I’m not allowed to be alone with “boys” in their home.
I swear she looks at me and still sees that misguided teenager, the one who pushed her buttons because all she ever wanted was proof that she was loved.
Turns out she never was. Not by them anyway.
And looking back, it explains so much.
Chapter 30
Talon
I take a drink from a mocktail-filled paper cup and peruse my surroundings. Irie’s aunt and uncle’s place is neat and tidy but also sparse and bland, night and day from the coastal-venetian-hybrid palace I grew up in. And so far the only evidence that Irie so much as lived here—other than the bulletin board in the guest room—is a single 5x8 framed photo on a coffee table. From the looks of it, it was taken at some gargantuan family reunion where they cram all seventy-six attendees into one shot. If she weren’t in the front row with the rest of the kids, I wouldn’t have noticed her.
“You doing okay?” Irie asks, placing her hand softly on top of my thigh.
“Of course.”
She sips from her cup, watching everyone around us socialize. So far only a handful of people have acknowledged her. Either she’s the bona fide black sheep of the family or she’s related to nothing but assholes.
“Irie, hi.” Her cousin, Lauren, the prissiest thing this side of the Mississippi, sidles up beside us, sweeping her hands beneath her skirt before she takes a seat. Clearing her throat, she crosses her legs at the ankle. “I just thought you should know that Trey McAvoy is going to be at the wedding so please … behave yourself. No drama.”
Irie blinks once before turning still as a statue. “Why would you invite him?”
Lauren sniffs. “He works with Jack. They’re good friends now. Geez, Irie, it’s not about you all the time.”
With that, Lauren shuffles off and I turn to my girlfriend, who is almost white as a ghost. I don’t know who this fucking Trey McAvoy is, but obviously the mere mention of him is upsetting.
“Hey.” I take her hand, giving it a squeeze. “What was that about?”
She shakes her head, trying to snap out of it, and then she places her drink on a nearby coaster. Her hands rake up and down her thighs, nothing but nervous energy, and then she rises, pacing the small corner of the family room we occupy.
“Irie.” I stand. Something’s wrong. “You want to get some air? Let’s go outside.”
She’s barely paying attention to me, so I take her by the arm and lead her to the back door—only when we get there, I realize the patio is filled with guests.
“Let’s go out front,” I say, taking her to the foyer.
We step into our shoes and head out the door, and before I have a chance to say something she’s halfway across the front lawn, headed for the sidewalk, arms hugging her sides.
“Irie, wait up.” I jog to catch up with her. “You going to talk to me or what? You’re kind of freaking me out here.”
It’s starting to get dark now, nothing but street lights and a dusky blue sky illuminating our way.
“Yeah, just … give me a second,” she finally speaks, her voice broken. After a block, I manage to get a better look at her and I realize she’s crying. Or she was. Her cheeks are damp and rosy, her eyes glassy.