Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“I have to go,” I blurt out, shoving myself off the couch and grabbing my bag in one swift movement. I know it’s rude of me. “I can’t … I should …”
“Salem, wait—”
I don’t. I’m already moving, counting the steps to the door.
“Salem? What’s going on?” Bel’s concerned voice calls after me, but I continue forward. I don’t stop walking until I reach the elevator and punch the button.
Why do I keep trying? Keep putting myself through this?
No one wants the crazy girl.
No one chooses the broken pieces.
No one stays.
Even now, Lee doesn’t want me, not really. He wants me to pretend, to join him in his parade of masks. Which makes no sense since he said he wanted to stop wearing them.
The elevator takes exactly thirty seconds to arrive. I know because I count every single one, trying not to think about the fact that I left my backup gloves on Drew’s pristine coffee table. Trying not to think about Lee’s face when I ran. Trying not to think at all. My current gloves are contaminated from touching my car keys earlier.
I’ll need to change them before driving. Except …
The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding just as I hear rapid footsteps behind me.
“Salem, wait!”
Lee’s voice carries around the foyer, and I glance back just in time to catch a glimpse of him running toward the elevator, something clear in his hand—my ziplock bag of clean gloves.
One second to decide …
Wait for him, face whatever he’s going to say, and deal with the mortification of him seeing me like this.
Or …
I step into the elevator and hit the lobby button. Just before the doors close, I see him skid to a stop, my gloves held out like some peace offering, his expression a mixture of concern and something else I can’t quite read.
“Fuck,” I whisper as the elevator descends. My hands are shaking in their contaminated gloves, and I have no backups. No safety net.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number: I have your gloves
Unknown number: Let me bring them down
Unknown number: Please
I stare at the messages until they blur, counting the floors as they tick by. How did he even get my number? Maybe Bel gave it to him.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Another buzz.
Lee?: At least let me know you’re okay
Two.
The latex squeaks as I clench my hands into fists. I should text him back and tell him I’m fine. I should thank him for remembering the gloves. I should …
My phone lights up again.
Noah: Everything okay?
Noah: Want me to come get you?
I type back a reply, my fingers trembling.
Me: Coming home. Need new gloves.
Noah: On it. Supply run to CVS?
Noah: I’ll have fresh ones waiting.
My brother. The only person who never makes me feel broken.
One.
The elevator chimes, and the doors open. I rush through the lobby, ignoring the doorman’s greeting and focusing on counting each step I take. The second elevator dings just as I’m about to slip out the door.
I don’t look back.
Can’t look back.
Even if I wanted to say yes to Lee’s offer, there’s no way it would work between us. Oakmount’s playboy and the town weirdo. No one would believe it. Some things are better left in dark pantries, hidden beneath a mask.
SIX
lee
Fuck. I’m both angry and disappointed in myself. Did I come on too strong? There’s no denying I triggered her. I could see the anxiety building with every word I spoke.
I should’ve eased into it. Dammit. Salem’s gloves mock me from the passenger seat of my Jeep, pristine in their Ziploc prison.
I’ve been sitting in Drew’s parking garage for twenty minutes, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel and trying to convince myself that following her isn’t insane. The lights flicker overhead, drawing my attention to everything at once—the echo of someone’s footsteps three rows over and the way my phone keeps lighting up with texts I’m ignoring. My mind races between possibilities faster than I can grab any single thought.
Follow her.
Don’t follow her.
Make sure she’s okay.
Give her space.
Go to her house.
(That’s definitely stalking, Sterling.)
But she needs her gloves.
And I need …
“Fuck,” I mutter, hitting my head against the headrest.
The memory of her face, the broken, despairing expression that reflected back at me, mixed with a dash of panic. Is she afraid of me? Afraid of getting too close?
Obviously, you idiot. You looked at her mental health records.
Then there’s Chen. He’s a problem in itself. Something that needs to be fixed, removed. I’ll deal with him, with all of them in due time.
My phone buzzes for the millionth time.
Drew: You good?
Drew: Should I be worried about the weird guy sitting in my parking garage?
Drew: Security called.
I snort and type back my response.
Me: Just plotting my next scandal. You know how it goes.
His reply is almost instant.
Drew: I know what you’re thinking, and I’m telling you now. Don’t do it. Leave her alone. She’s been through enough. Being your next conquest is not on her bingo card.