Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Maybe I can save up enough to get this fixed up,” I muse, because I can’t think about him anymore. “How much do you think it would cost?”
She runs the back of her arm across her forehead to pick up some sweat before shrugging. “I have no idea. How much money do you have?”
“Not much. I only work stocking shelves at the grocery store two days a week.” As it is, I barely make enough to make ends meet. And I don’t exactly live an expensive lifestyle.
“Could you pick up extra hours here and there?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. I’ll have to ask.” Though really, it’s going to take a lot of hours. Maybe it would be smarter to quit school and end all this torture so I can work full-time and have an actual life. But what kind of future will I have without a college degree?
It would also mean that Briggs won. Like he broke me once and for all. I’m not going to let that happen. I’ll probably end up hating myself for that decision, but I would hate myself more if he thought he won.
By the time we’re out of remover, there’s a big, ruined patch of paint where the word slut used to be. At least now I won’t feel mortified driving down the street. I’m used to people giving me weird looks, so a little messed up paint is nothing compared to a slur.
“Come on. Let me treat you to dinner.” Maya pats my shoulder on her way to her car. “The Italian place around the corner? I need carbs on a day like this.”
So do I, especially since it’s not like I ate more than an apple for lunch. Am I going to spend the whole semester starving because Briggs doesn’t want me to eat? If only it felt like somebody would help me if I complained. Somehow, I know things would only get worse.
At least there’s dinner with Maya, who asks questions about my sketching when she notices the sketchpad in my bag. “Maybe you could sell some of your work to make extra money,” she suggests.
“I’m not good enough.” The idea makes me laugh. “I feel like if I charged money… I don’t know, like it wouldn’t feel the same. Right now, I just do it to clear my head. I can forget everything else going on around me.” And I have so many reasons to want to do that lately.
After dinner, I have to fight off a serious carb coma while driving home. Good thing it’s not far. At least the car blends in around here, where most people treat duct tape like a major automotive repair tool. I don’t have to feel self-conscious about standing out.
It takes a while for me to drag my fettuccine alfredo-loving ass up the stairs. When I get to my front door, it’s not all the butter and cheese in my stomach that makes nausea grip me. It’s the loud, drunken laughter coming from inside my apartment.
Dammit. Buck isn’t alone. It sounds like there’s at least two other men in there, all of them equally drunk off their asses. If I had anywhere else to go, I would. There’s nothing I can do but open the door and hope for the best.
“Hey! There she is. Do you want a beer?” Buck is usually Mr. Personality at this point in the night. He hasn’t had quite enough to turn into a clumsy, slurring mess yet. He gets up from the sofa surprisingly smoothly and is halfway to the kitchen by the time I shake my head.
“No, thanks.” I shift my gaze back and forth as I inch my way around a pizza box on the floor, then the cardboard box that used to hold a lot of beer but is now empty. One of the guys is too busy cracking open another bottle to pay attention to me, but the other? He doesn’t bother hiding the way he looks me up and down like a piece of meat he wants to devour. “I think I’ll go to my room,” I announce with a tight smile before ducking my head and moving on.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” The creep gets up, towering over me, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops as a slow smirk tugs the corner of his mouth. He might be cute if he wasn’t so slimy, if his breath didn’t reek of beer and cigarettes.
But it’s his eyes that gross me out worst of all. They’re dark and cold and flat, with no emotion as they stare down at me. I can see them better when he tips back the brim of his trucker hat. “My name is Brandon. What’s yours?” he asks.
“Now, come on.” Buck laughs before he bends to look around in the fridge. “Leave the kid alone.”