Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Just for the record, I don’t do crushes. Girls have a knack for bringing out your emotions, your baser instincts, and when your baser instincts are black as the smoke I inhale, it’s better to keep them at an arm’s length. So that’s what I do. I use them when I need them, but I don’t keep them.
But Sarah Ann was different.
Not that I was going to do anything about it for obvious reasons.
But when Shepard came home with her one day, it pissed me off. It pissed me off to the point that I almost broke the coffee mug I’d been holding in my hand. And then I saw the smirk on his face, that cocky, irreverent smirk that let me know he was doing it to provoke me. He wanted to see me lose my cool for his amusement and I loosened my hold. I let the mug go, set it down on our old kitchen island, and went back to my room. Where I stayed for the entire night.
For the next six weeks, until Shepard broke up with her, I made sure to either stay late at the library or stay closeted in my room until she left. Because if I hadn’t, I would’ve broken my promise and become like my father.
Before I can protest again, he continues, “I can see that you do.”
“Don’t,” I say again, the same anger burning up inside of me.
At the fact that he used her to provoke me.
He used her to make me angry and for what? So he could watch me blow up, isn’t it? So he could play me like he plays his lackeys who worship at his feet.
“We never talked about her either,” he says.
“There is nothing to talk about.” I keep my fingers laced even though it’s taking a great effort, but if I let go, I’m going to curl them into fists and put them through his fucking face.
He ignores me. “All you had to do was ask and I would’ve given her to you. All you had to do was talk to me.”
“I have no interest in talking to you,” I say.
Because if I talk to him, I’m going to hit him. I’m going to fucking destroy him right now. And that’s not something I want to do.
He scoffs. “Yeah, that has always been established. But that’s not the point.”
I know that’s not the point.
I know.
That’s why I’ve been avoiding this conversation. That’s why I’ve been avoiding him in general. That’s why I don’t hang out with the team. That’s why I turn down invitations, but since I always turn them down, people don’t notice. Which is how I want it to be.
“Shut,” I growl lowly, “your mouth and leave.”
“The point is that I’m not going to do it here,” he states. “I’m not going to do it with her.”
And I imagine my control dangling off a cliff then. In my head, I see it. I see that the only thing holding it in place is a thin thread that’s built out of years and years of practice.
Years and years of suppressing myself, holding myself back.
Years and fucking years of remembering and reliving that one moment. That one night with my father. Where he was sobbing while my mother slept upstairs with a black eye. That the next day she had explained it away as walking into a kitchen cabinet. Only I knew the truth. And probably Conrad. But none of them, none of my other siblings and that includes this reckless asshole in front of me, knew what had happened.
None of them knew that a time bomb lived among us.
Along with a time bomb in the making.
Me.
And that’s the only reason, the only fucking reason I stay sitting. Because if I unlace my fingers and spring up from my chair that ‘in the making’ will turn into ‘made’ and I won’t let that happen.
“I know you want her,” he says, his jaw clenched. “I know you watch her when you think no one’s looking. I know that’s why you’ve been keeping your distance from me for the past year. That’s why you don’t hang out. That’s why you avoid me. And while we’ve never been close and I’ve never been a huge fan of you and vice versa, this is different. She is different. She is not Sarah Ann.”
I’m mashing my teeth right now.
I’m on the verge of breaking my own fingers.
“I love her,” he declares. “Not that you’d know what it means, but I do.”
I know that.
I know he loves her.
I also know that I don’t know what it means. I don’t have the luxury to find out. And while it never bothered me before—love isn’t something that I remotely gave any thought to; most of my thoughts are occupied with how not to break someone’s teeth and shove them down their throat—it bothers me now.