Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” I dart out the bathroom door like my ass is on fire, with Sasha hot on my feels.
“Taylor, wait,” she calls after me in exasperation.
Rather than wait, I tear down the hall toward the lobby. My pace is so fast that when I skid around the corner, I slam into one of my sorority sisters. Half a dozen or so Kappas are milling in the lobby, along with a couple of Sigma guys lugging chairs.
The brunette I just bulldozed stumbles forward. With her long hair falling over her eyes, it takes a second for me to realize it’s Rebecca.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t see you there.”
Regaining her balance, she instantly casts her eyes downward at the sound of my voice. I’m already testy thanks to my anger over Conor, that Rebecca’s mopey scowl triggers another rush of ire.
“For fuck’s sake,” I snap at her. “We made out freshman year and you felt up my boobs, Rebecca. Get over it.”
“Meow,” cackles Jules, who’s standing a few feet away and overheard me.
At her, I snap, “Shut up, Jules,” and then brush past her and Abigail’s douchey Sigma boyfriend, leaving their wide eyes in my wake.
Sasha catches up to me just as I’m throwing open one of the double doors at the entrance.
“Taylor,” she orders. “Stop.”
I force myself to stop. “What is it?” I ask.
Worry playing on her face, she touches my arm and gives it a soft squeeze. “No guy is worth losing your self-respect over, okay? Just remember that. And wear a seatbelt.”
30
Taylor
Conor’s Jeep is in the driveway when I get to his townhouse. Foster answers the door, donning a big dumb grin when he sees me. He lets me in without a question, saying Con’s upstairs in his room. For a moment it crosses my mind to interrogate Foster. If any one of the roommates were to crack, spill the tea for a glimpse of some cleavage, it’d be Foster. Right now, though, I just want to nail Conor to a wall.
I barge into his room to find him totally alone. I guess part of me expected there to be a skinny naked woman in his bed, but instead, it’s just him, dressed like he’s going somewhere and about to leave.
He doesn’t even look surprised to see me. Disappointed, maybe. “I can’t talk right now, T,” he says with a sigh.
“Well, you’re gonna have to.”
He tries to open the bedroom door behind me, but I stand in his way. “Taylor, please. I don’t have time for this. I need to go.” His voice is cold, indifferent. He won’t look at me. I think I wanted him to be angry, annoyed. This is worse.
“You owe me some kind of explanation. Blowing off dinner plans is one thing, but the Spring Gala was important to me.” My eyes are hot and stinging. I swallow hard. “Now you’re bailing on me hours before the event? That’s cold, even for you lately.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“I’m sick of sorry. I feel like we broke up only you forgot to tell me. Dammit, Con, if this”—I gesture between us—“is over, just tell me. I think I deserve that much.”
He turns away from me, raking his hands through his hair and mumbling something under his breath.
“What? Just spit out,” I order. “I’m right here.”
“It has nothing to do with you, okay?”
“Then what? Just tell me why.” Exasperation washes over me. I don’t understand what he possibly has to gain from all this subterfuge, if not to drive me crazy. “What’s so important that you’re ditching me tonight?”
“There’s just something I have to do.” Frustration builds in his voice. The lines deepen across his face, and his shoulders hold more tension than I’ve ever seen. “I wish I didn’t, but it is what it is.”
“That’s not an answer!” I say in frustration.
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He stalks past me and reaches for the jacket draped over his desk chair. “I’ve gotta go. You need to leave.”
As he grabs the jacket, it catches on the armrest and a thick white envelope about the size of a brick tumbles out of one of the pockets. From the envelope, several bound straps of twenty-dollar bills splay on the floor.
We both stare in silence at the money until Conor swipes it up off the floor and starts shoving it back in the envelope.
“What are you doing with all that money?” I ask warily.
“It’s not important,” he mutters, shoving the envelope into his jacket pocket. “I have to go.”
“No.” I shove the door closed and plaster myself against it. “No one walks around with that kind of money unless they’re up to no good. I’m not letting you walk out this door until you tell me what’s wrong. If you’re in some kind of trouble, let me help you.”