Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
And thankfully, the water is warm now.
I rinse off, avoiding the used bar of green and white marbled soap that rests on a ledge at the corner of the shower. Dried suds cake the bottom, and while it doesn’t look like it’s been used recently, it’s been used since the last Pirate girl.
Hitting the knob, I turn off the shower and grab a towel. Drying off, I step out and head quickly back to the bedroom, pulling on my pair of jeans from last night. I only wore them for a few hours, but I skip the underwear, holding out for Aro to bring clean ones later today.
Donning my bra, I choose a dark gray “D.A.R.E. to keep kids off drugs” T-shirt from the closet and pull it on. I brush my hair, pull it up into a high ponytail, and slip my arms into my Pirate varsity jacket. I want them all to know that I have no intention of going unnoticed.
I slip my phone inside my jacket and yank open the desk drawers, scanning for school supplies. There’s not much. A tattered green Mead notebook, a pen with no cap, two well-used pencils, wrappers from what looks like a roll of SweeTARTS, and an old flip phone. I take it and open it up, seeing it’s dead. I toss it back in the drawer, feeling the residue it left on my fingertips as I rub them together. I hold my hand up to my nose and inhale the scent of fire and smoke. Hmm.
I snatch up the notebook, pen, and pencils and start to leave, but then I stop.
You’re not alone in that house.
I hop up on the bed, peering up at the vent in the ceiling.
But I don’t notice anything. No light streaming in from a window in the attic above or a glint from a camera lens. Stepping off, I inspect every corner, searching for hidden lenses in between books on the shelves and looking for peep holes in the walls.
There’s nothing.
I commit the room to memory, taking note of how the charging cord hangs over the nightstand drawer, and how the closet door is closed, so I might be able to detect any changes if someone comes in while I’m at school.
I close the bedroom door and jog downstairs, but as soon as I step into the kitchen, I see it’s full of men.
I halt.
Calvin Calderon and Farrow Kelly stand next to the stove, four others spread throughout the kitchen and dining room.
Did they come with Hunter? Were they here the whole time I was in the shower?
I think I recognize all of them, though. All Rebel players. T.C. Wills rests his elbow on the counter, his skin golden and taut over the muscles peeking out of his light gray T-shirt. Luca Tarquin and Anders LaForest sit at the small kitchen table, slouching a little with their long legs taking up all the space.
And I glance behind them, seeing Constin De La Cruz standing at the window. I do a quick inventory, seeing they all have the tattoo.
Except for Constin.
His Green Street mark is etched into his skin, the scar white and pebbled against his dark, tawny skin, because it was knifed into him.
And I believe that was entirely his idea. I immediately turn away from his ice blue eyes.
“Love the jacket,” T.C. taunts.
Farrow steps over, holding out a black, disposable cup of coffee. “Are you ready for school?”
I take the cup, about to nod, but he speaks as they all rise.
“Tomorrow, you’ll ride,” he says, walking past me. “Today, you walk.”
Out they all go, leaving the house and me behind.
“Prepare to be boarded, Pirate,” Constin says.
It’s raining.
Of course, it is.
I climb the soft incline up to the school, a cemetery covered in years of brown leaves sits to my right, and an old Victorian behind a chain-link fence with shutters over the windows to my left.
A stream of water runs down my nose and over my lip, the raindrops light but constant.
I walk. I don’t run.
Lifting my chin, I head through the parking lot as cars race past, swinging into empty spots. Students loiter between old trucks and rusty sedans, a group of three guys jumping out of an ancient Bronco that reminds me of the one in my mom’s pictures from high school. It’s even white like hers was.
People turn to watch me as I pass on my way to the front doors, and I half-expect to get hit with a tomato or a bag of dog poop, but the worst that happens is the staring. Everyone’s quiet.
Farrow stands at the top of the cement stairs, leaning on the ledge and surrounded again by Calvin, Luca, T.C., Anders, and Constin. The overhang of the roof high above shields them from the rain.
I try to breeze past, but they all turn, surrounding me as T.C. opens the door for us. Farrow pulls up to my right, and everyone else follows. I’m not sure if they think I’ll run, or if they just want attention by making a spectacle, but I don’t avoid any gazes this time. I lock eyes with a young woman hanging on her locker, and then her friend who leans against the wall, hugging her notebook and chewing gum. Then I slide my gaze to a guy sucking on a Tootsie Pop. He smiles, twirling his tongue around the candy.