Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
One little nibble at a time.
Callan
Atlas is a monster.
One of those men who chews boys like me up and spits them out. It’d be in my best interest to run far, far away. Date someone closer to my age. Hell, date someone nice.
Like Zak?
I shove that thought away and focus on how much I hate Atlas.
His stupid, perfect lips—scarlet and hibiscus and burgundy.
Arrogant. Ridiculously forward. Hot.
My brain isn’t clear when it comes to Atlas. He confuses me. Frustrates me. Maddens me.
He also inspires me.
Which is why I’m on a hunt for more paint. More supplies. Anything to get all these crazy thoughts outside of my head and onto the canvas. I want to draw and bring color where there once wasn’t. I want to sketch and dream and see something other than the dark grays and blacks that have been clouding my world.
Atlas is both chaos and cure for my dying creativity and will for life.
I want to punch him, but I also want to kiss him. I want to strip him naked, smack him around, and lick every part of him.
His lips are my favorite thing to think about. I’m obsessed with them. Desperate to taste them. Starved for them.
He offered them to me. All I had to do was give in. Accept. Fall into the kaleidoscope hole that is Atlas Larson. It would be a ruin and a rebirth. Simultaneously destruction and creation.
I’ve always been drawn to things that hurt.
The kid who touched the hot stove. The kid who picked off the scab. The kid who offered his heart to those who liked to break them.
A masochist with a soul that craves the painful yet beautiful things in life.
“Good afternoon,” a voice greets when I enter Thomas Hardware.
I wouldn’t go as far as to say it’s good.
“Hey,” I say with a lift of my chin.
The guy at the counter goes back to sorting washers or bolts or whatever mountain of metal he’s working with while I head straight for the paint section. Even though this is a hardware store, they do carry some art supplies. I’d accidentally stumbled upon them when I went on a run with Shelly and Hans one day.
I take my time inspecting some paintbrushes before grabbing a few I like. Then, I peruse the acrylic paints. I find a container called fire brick red, another called sunbeam yellow, and a third called pigeon blue. They each remind me of Atlas in some way.
I load my arms up with tons of supplies until I can’t hold them anymore. After dropping them off beside the sorted piles of assorted screws of all sizes—not bolts or washers it turns out—I head back to get more stuff. I’m able to obtain everything I need aside from what’s locked behind a glass door.
“You an artist?” the man asks, eyeing my pile.
“I just like making pretty things.” I smile at him. “I need a twelve-ounce can of fire red pepper, popsicle orange, sunbeam, spring grass, patriotic blue, merlot, and icy grape. All in satin.”
The man whose name tag says Irvin slowly nods. “Anything else I can get you?”
“That should be it.”
While he saunters off to get what I’ve asked for, I check my phone. There’s a couple of missed texts from Dante and a few from Shelly.
Dante: Want to run errands with me?
Dante: Lunch?
Dante: Call me.
Shelly: I was going to cook dinner for the four of us tonight. Please say you’ll come.
Shelly: That was code for “you better come or else.”
She follows her threats with several heart emojis.
Great. So, they’re tag-teaming me. I reply to Shelly, knowing she’ll pass it on to Dante.
Me: Fine. I’ll come for dinner if you two will promise to back off. I’m okay. You don’t have to treat me like I’m fifteen anymore. I grew up and turned into an adult. Just like you both did.
It’s an asshole move, but I don’t care. I’m tired of their incessant bugging. I am eighteen now. Sure, Hank fucked me up a little, but I’ll find my own way eventually. I just need to breathe and think for five seconds without someone trying to mother me the entire time.
Irvin returns with my haul. After he rings me up and I hand him a stack of cash, I carry my bags out into the blistery cold. Rather than heading home, I hurry past the BFB post office, cross First Street, avoid the police station like the plague, and then duck into one of my favorite places in Brigs Ferry Bay.
Jarrett’s Antiques.
“If you’re from New York, the answer is no,” a grumpy voice says from somewhere within the store that smells delightfully of dust and polish and history.
“Not what you said last night,” I throw back cheerfully.
Jarrett pops up from behind an antique desk, hair wild and unkempt, grinning like a maniac. “You don’t count, kiddo. You’re not like them.”