Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 124029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
He took one of her hands and placed it over his crotch.
“Yup. About to ride into the sunset, or closest STI clinic, with Tess Davis.” I accidentally crushed a crunchy taco shell as they zipped through the parking lot, clouds of dust curtaining their figures.
Karlie made a face. “She always draws the best bull. I wonder who he’ll do next?”
Hopefully his hand. We don’t want any mini-Wests populating our planet.
I spent the next five hours listening to Karlie pondering West’s taste in women, serving people, and obsessing over the disastrous turn my life had taken.
When I opened the truck’s doors to leave, a pair of ballet shoes sat on the stair. I picked them up, frowning. They were around my size, brand-new, but out of the shoebox. There was a note stuck to them, scribbled lazily.
Better start practicing.
“What the …?”
My words from this morning bounced inside my head.
“The chances of you wantin’ to work in this food truck are akin to the chances of my joinin’ the Bolshoi.”
West St. Claire had jokes.
Unfortunately, I had a feeling I was about to become his favorite one.
West
Bzzz.
Bzzzzz.
Bzzzzzzzzzz.
My phone danced across my nightstand, falling to the floor, forming a jerky circle like a bug on its back.
I leaned down and picked it up, swiping the screen to turn off my alarm. A muffled shriek pierced my eardrum.
“Honey? Is that you? Larry! Come here! He answered.”
Fuck. My. Life.
I’d been knocked out dead for ten hours, so it didn’t register the monotone, wake-the-fuck-up sound of my alarm was also my ringtone.
For a split second, I toyed with the idea of hanging up then figured I’d filled up my asshole quota for this week yesterday by eating all of East’s pre-prepared jock food. Biting my own fist to the point of drawing blood, I pressed my phone to my ear.
Here goes Nothing and its fucking asshole cousin, Calamity.
“Mother.”
“Hello! Hi!” Mom cried out desperately. “Westie, I can’t believe you answered.”
Join the fucking club.
“How’s it going?” I rolled sideways on the mattress, sitting on the edge of my bed. The clock on my nightstand said two in the afternoon. It also said I was a complete, goddamn moron who’d slept in again. Graduation was looming closer, and I knew I was going to get out of Sheridan University with my useless degree, but it would be nice to at least pretend I gave a damn.
“Nothing, honey! I mean, everything’s good. Just fine. We wanted to check in on you. See how you were doing. Easton has been giving us updates, but we love hearing your voice.”
“Is that him?” Dad sniffled in the background. I heard shuffling. Things knocked off a table. They were rabid with excitement. Guilt kicked in, followed by its loyal friend, Remorse. “Let me speak to him. Westie? Are you there?”
“Dad. Hi.”
“It’s good to hear your voice, son.”
I pushed my feet into the Blundstones under my bed, dragging my ass to the bathroom. I took a leak and brushed my teeth as Dad launched into a story about how the guy who promised to help him fertilize his land still wasn’t back from Wyoming, and that he’d lost another contract as a result. I got the subtext—I needed to send them more money before their electricity got cut off.
The sharp guilt I’d experienced a second ago dulled into numbness.
“I’m guessing the bankers aren’t your biggest fans.” I spat mint toothpaste and water into the sink, splashing water over my face. I didn’t glance in the mirror. Hadn’t faced myself in years—why start now?
“Oh, well, I mean … things aren’t looking great, I suppose. But—”
I didn’t let him finish.
“I’ll send some money by the end of the day. Speak soon. Bye.”
I hung up on him just as he started saying something. I grabbed my keys, jumped on the Ducati, and hauled ass to school. Eight minutes later, I strode into Lawrence Hall, to my two-thirty sports management lecture.
Late again, much to no one’s surprise.
Luckily, Professor Addams (spelled with double-D, fitting for his man-boobs) was busy attempting to work this magical thing called an iPad. His head was down as he assaulted the screen with his greasy fingers, trying to make his slideshow appear on the white screen behind him. I slinked into the back of the room, sliding into a spot between Reign and East. Addams’ slideshow finally popped into vision, and he let out a relieved cackle.
“’Sup.” Reign fist-bumped me. He was making out with a random. She was mauling his neck while his hand was shoved inside her skirt.
East flicked the back of my head. “Late again. By the way, thanks for eating all my food.”
“My pleasure.”
Truly, it was.
“Dare you to do it again.”
“You know I never turn down a challenge.”
Everyone had laptops and notebooks out. Not me. I didn’t bring a backpack. I showed up randomly whenever the threat of failing a semester seemed real. Professor Addams’ voice rose from the bowels of the lecture hall.