Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
He nods, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Then he scowls down at me. “You’ve seen my place. We both agree it’s great. Now, tell me what the fuck is going on.”
I fight a smile at his abrupt manner and cursing. Even when he was a teenager, he was like this. It’s only gotten worse since his time in the service. But his gruff nature isn’t a turn-off to me. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. I love it when he gets growly and tells me what to do.
“Maybe I wanted to visit an old friend.” I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I know they’re lame. But I don’t even know how to explain this whole mess. Worse, what if he doesn’t believe me? What if he acts like the smarmy cop who looked at me as if I were another in a long line of hysterical women he had to deal with that week?
He crosses from the living room to the kitchen. I watch him go, admiring the way his blue jeans cling so tightly to his ass. He was always attractive in uniform but this version of Brody, the down-home country boy look is setting my insides on fire.
He opens the gleaming fridge and grabs two beers. He cracks them both open then passes me one when he returns. The whole moment is surreal. This is the guy that came bursting through the door of a college party I’d gone to when I was in high school. Not only did he get me out of there, but he also called the cops on my underage friends.
Now he’s giving me a beer. I guess he finally realized I’m an adult. Either that or he can sense my jangled nerves and he’s trying to calm me. But comforting people isn’t really Brody’s style.
I sit on the couch that smells like him before dropping my bag at my feet. There are three exits from this room and two in the kitchen. I don’t know how or when my brain picked up on them. I just know that I’m aware of them.
I take a single sip of my beer. I haven’t had alcohol since this started. I’ve been too worried about what could happen if I were incapacitated. That’s the thing about being stalked. I can’t enjoy anything, even a simple beer with a friend.
Brody takes a seat on the leather chair across from me. But he doesn’t lean back in it. He sits on the very edge, his posture ramrod straight. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was waiting for a threat.
I flick the edge of the wrapper with my nail. My gnawed-on thumbnail. I used to have really pretty nails that were always done up in these cute little press-on patterns. Now they’re bare and jagged.
I focus all my attention on the wrapper and refuse to look Brody in the eye. I’m not so sure I want to see his reaction to this. “I think I’m being stalked.”
3
BRODY
I take a seat across from Charlie and try to focus on anything but the way that cute little camisole keeps dipping too low. I can see the swell of her breasts and I want more than anything to yank it all the way down. What color are her tits? I’ve wondered that a lot over the past three years. More than I should.
Before that elevator kiss, I’d never seen Charlie. Not really. She was just this sweet kid who followed me and Elliot around. She was great at fetching beers from her dad’s fridge and laughed when I taught her how to make armpit noises to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb.
Then my little lamb grew up and I don’t know what to do with that. I can’t fuck her. You don’t fuck your best friend’s little sister. Even if it weren’t against the rules of friendship, Elliot was there for me through too much shit.
He’s the reason I survived to adulthood. He kept me from going over the edge so many times. Now his little sister is in my living room and looking lost. I need to find a way to help her and get her out of here. Before I consume her, taking every bit of her light and hoarding it for my own.
She flicks at the edge of her beer and I fight the urge to demand she tell me again. I’m used to being in charge and telling people where to go and what to do. But there’s something about the way she’s so quiet that has me hesitating.
After a long beat that feels like a lifetime, she whispers the words that break my heart, “I think I’m being stalked.”
“You either are or you aren’t.” As soon as I say it, I wish I could take them back. There’s a reason I used to joke that the Army was my wife. I’m not good at talking to people. Not to women and certainly not to scared women.