Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
It looks vicious. Angry.
Painful.
“Were you,” I swallow, eyeing it carefully, “like, in a fight or something?”
He could’ve been.
He’s not exactly the most level-headed guy I’ve ever met.
Back in school, I’d see him with random bruises here and there. I’d even witness how he got some of them. By getting into fights with people all around campus, which was always followed by Lucas pulling him away and then accompanying him to the principal’s office. They’d either suspend him for the day or take away his soccer privileges.
He always got them back though; he was one of the best players, and apparently it didn’t matter that he was also a loose cannon as long as he could kick a ball into the net with expertise.
“Yeah, getting real tired of people asking this question,” he replies with a frown.
“Why, who else asked this question?”
His jaw tenses even more. “You stalking him now?”
Stalking.
Yeah, I am.
But I’m not ready to answer him yet.
“Well, it’s a normal conclusion to draw. You’re always getting into fights,” I say.
“What is this?” He tips that bruised jaw at me. “Your stalker goth-reject costume?”
“Hey!” I draw back, the hood that was covering my dirty blonde hair falling off, making my hair spill all over my shoulders. “There is nothing wrong with my costume. It’s not even a costume. It’s a pair of jeans and a hoodie.”
“Since when do you wear jeans?”
“I wear jeans all the time.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I…” I purse my lips. “Why are you always so concerned about what I’m wearing? I’m wearing what I’m wearing. It’s none of your business what I’m wearing.”
I hate that he knows me so well.
I’m not a jeans kind of girl. I like dresses and skirts and summery things.
But what I hate the most is the fact that he so easily figured it out, that these are my stalker clothes. Dark and designed to conceal me. Not only so I could get away undetected from St. Mary’s but also because this is a party where people know me. And if people know me, then they also know what I did.
Two years ago.
And I’m not in the mood to be harassed about it, or made fun of or be laughed at or jeered at. Which is what they did back then. After everything happened, going to school was a nightmare and I have no inclination to repeat that experience tonight.
Hence my stalker, goth-reject costume.
“Now tell me about your bruise,” I order.
He doesn’t.
Because he’s… watching.
My strewn-about hair, specifically.
And he’s watching it in a way that makes me feel all exposed and self-conscious.
With his eyes all intense and heavy.
Almost in a daze.
I clear my throat then, unable to bear it, and he snaps his eyes away and brings them to my face. Then, “A bruise is a bruise. It’s none of your business how I got my bruise.”
Touché.
I lift my chin. “Well, I hope it hurts.”
“It does.”
“Good.”
“You need to —”
“Is that…” I fist my hands. “Is she… one of the girls his girlfriend?”
Oh God, please no.
Please don’t say yes.
I know I have no right to ask that. I have no right to feel this hurt in my chest. Especially when I did the same thing to him.
But God, it hurts.
It hurts so, so much.
His jaw tics and I can’t help but hone in on that bruise again, feeling my own heart pulsing and ticking, before he replies, “No.”
At this answer, a relieved breath escapes me. “So then who were they?”
He holds his silence for a few seconds. “Just some girls.”
“So he doesn’t know them? But how’s that —”
Another sharp breath from him before he states, “I’m taking you home.”
“What?”
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“What, no. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Told you to stay away from him, didn’t I?”
“Unfortunately for you, you don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“Let’s,” he says slowly, taking a step forward, “go.”
I take a step back. “No.”
“Echo,” he warns.
My feet tremble on my next step back but I do it. “You’re taking this best friend crap a little too far, all right?”
“I’m not going to repeat myself.”
“I get that you’re his best buddy and you’re like brothers and whatever. But you don’t get to decide who speaks with him. You’re not his gatekeeper or… I don’t know, babysitter or —”
He takes another step forward. “Unfortunately for you, I am. So come on.”
Glaring, I move back. “Maybe he wants to talk to me too.”
“Very fucking unlikely.”
I ignore the pain in my chest. Because there is a chance that he might be right.
I don’t want him to remind me though.
“I told you he was looking at me, remember? At the bar,” I goad him, despite all better judgement.
“And I told you that you can’t blame him.”
“I’m not —”
“Or any guy for that matter,” he goes on. “If you keep flinging your tits under their nose.”