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)
A real-life Lolita.
Mr. Holmes has had to fire two junior coaches ever since he bought the team two years ago. He’s had to fire three security guys, trade in a player, all because they were found in various compromising positions with her. Personally, I’ve never put much stock into rumors and considered her none of my business.
Not tonight, though.
Tonight, for some reason, she seems like my business.
Tonight, I’m watching.
Her.
With him.
Dancing.
I’m watching her with him, laughing. With abandon, without a care in the world. Without a care that I’m only a few feet away.
A ticking time bomb is only a few feet away.
A bomb that’s going to explode at any moment.
Any moment, I’m going to march across the dance floor, grab my brother’s collar, and beat that smile off his face. I’m going to break his legs into pieces, one by one, so dancing is a distant memory for him. I’m going to rip her from his arms and steal her away. I’m going to start a fight with my brother because I saw her first.
Which isn’t good.
Me feeling like this—angry, agitated, jealous—is not good. Her making me feel this way is not good at all.
It’s very fucking bad.
It’s downright dangerous.
She’s dangerous.
So much so that I need to step away. I need to contain myself. I need to contain this fire inside of me. These things I don’t want anyone to see. I need to go back to the shadows where I belong, remain undiscovered and hidden.
Which is what I do.
I leave the party, determined not to give a single thought to Isadora Agni Holmes.
The girl in a white dress and fake wings.
With enough fire to melt the fucking Arctic.
With enough fire to melt even me.
Act 1
The Asshole, The Slut, & The Boyfriend
Chapter 1
Present
He stands away from everyone and at the edge of everything.
Like always.
This ballroom is filled with people, every nook and cranny overflowing with glossy gowns and dashing tuxes. But he’s managed to find one corner, one tiny corner, by the exit to the grounds. He stands there, leaning against the wall, sporting a tumbler of whiskey. That he hasn’t drunk from, I bet, or taken more than a few sips of. He’s not a big drinker.
As he watches people.
As if he’s here to observe and not participate.
He’s separate from all this nonsense and frivolity. He doesn’t care for it. It doesn’t move him or inspire him.
He rejects it.
This charity event New York City FC threw together.
I don’t blame him.
Even though such events have been the norm for me growing up, I have also never liked them. They’re too stuffy for me. Too fake, too artificial, with practiced smiles and rehearsed dialogues. As an unofficial theater minor in college, my love for fake is big but not this big. So I understand his disdain.
Besides, I don’t think he has very many things common with the rest of the men here.
Well, except for the clothes.
He’s wearing the same shiny tux and a crisp white shirt underneath like the rest of them. His dark brown hair’s combed and styled exactly like the rest of the guys. And his wing-tipped shoes are polished to perfection.
He still stands out, though.
Because I know him.
While everyone here would break all the rules the first chance they get, he will follow them no matter what. While people here will talk about the weather or soccer stats, he can probably hold a conversation about history and politics; I’ve heard him do both on more than one occasion. When he does deign to speak, that is. While a weaker man would succumb to temptation, I know he’ll stick to his one cigarette per day come what may.
Oh, and I also know he’s cold.
So, so cold.
Not that I care about any of those things I mentioned above.
I don’t.
In fact, I’m not even really watching him right now.
Nope.
It’s just that he’s in my line of vision.
And every time I look up from my drink—a white wine—my eyes inevitably pass by him. So it’s a passing glance, is what it is. Any second now, I’m going to pass him by and look at something else.
I am.
It’s going to happen.
“Isadora?”
I jerk, sloshing my wine dangerously close to the rim, and turn to the voice beside me. “What, I’m sorry.”
It’s my mother.
Which I knew, of course.
I knew I was standing with my mother. I knew I was getting a drink with my mother, which is why the drink is a tame white wine instead of something tequila based.
I knew all that.
It’s just that as soon as I spotted… a certain someone by those exit doors across the ballroom, I kinda forgot.
Which was stupid.
Because now my mother is looking in the same direction as I was just now as she asks, “Who are you looking at?”
“No one,” I reply quickly.
A little too quickly maybe because my mom’s eyes come back to settle on me.