Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I hold my head high, shake her hand and say in a clear voice. “Another perfect.”
She frowns as I drop her hand. “What?”
“I’m Ambrose’s foster sister. By the way, he doesn’t look too happy to see you… again. I’d back off before you end up in the hospital instead of the school…” I flash her a huge grin. “Byyyyyeeee good luck with your teaching degree!”
And then I stomp off in search of the two boys, who are enemies, even more curious about what connection they have and what made them both so upset.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ambrose
I can’t breathe.
That’s my first thought.
My second is complete rage.
The third is that MB is watching.
My hands are shaking before I make them into fists, and then I’m wondering how much trouble I’ll get into for hitting a woman, which again sounds horrible, but people don’t know our story, they don’t know our damage, I don’t think of her as anything but a monster, and monsters are villains, shouldn’t they all be punished?
She got away with my dad’s money.
Quinn’s dad’s money.
She took our pride.
She broke us then promised to fix us.
She lied.
So many thoughts run through my head, and then I feel a hand in mine, one I recognize, the skin too easy to remember, the feel of it pressed against my palm, the smell of his cologne.
And I fucking hate that she’s staring at both of us like she’s about to feast at a Vegas buffet.
I want to vomit.
I want to jump onto Quinn and beg him to save me, and I’m not that sort of person. I’ve always told myself I’m strong enough to save me, that I don’t need anyone, but when it counted, when it mattered, he did.
And I still hate myself for being so weak, so imperfect.
I don’t realize I’m hyperventilating until he’s rushing me into the school and down the hall, roughly jerking me into the men’s bathroom and shoving me against a wall.
“Breathe!” he yells in my face.
I forget how demanding he is. His hand comes around my throat lightly as he taps my right cheek like I need to snap out of my stupor.
Am I really not breathing?
I see spots and squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again.
I stare into his blue eyes and almost want to hold my breath, so he yells again. I need the yelling. I need a fight. I wonder if he’ll slap me too.
Punch me in the stomach.
A rough exhale follows my short intake of breath.
Quinn’s eyes are wild. He shoves me harder against the cement wall next to the hand drier.
“Fucking. Breathe. Ambrose!”
I am. Right?
I don’t even know anymore.
Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like? Because it’s not fun, it’s severe. It hurts. I hate everyone and everything.
The door opens behind him, and someone walks in, but he doesn’t let me go.
A familiar scent of perfume washes over me, and then MB is standing next to him.
My people.
One who abandoned me, who I loathe.
One who I project everything onto because to take it on just might kill me.
Both of them shouldn’t be here.
And yet they are.
In the men’s restroom.
“Bro.” Quinn’s forehead crashes against mine, it’s nearly painful, but it shocks me out of my own misery as my heart pounds against my chest. “You need to take one deep breath for me, okay? I’m gonna count to three, and you’re going to take a deep breath and exhale for five seconds. Nod if you understand.”
I nod.
I still feel numb, yet in so much pain that it’s impossible to think beyond the fact that my forehead hurts from his.
“One,” Quinn starts. “Two. Three.”
I suck in a sharp breath, then count to five and release it. MB puts her hand on my shoulder.
He repeats the instructions.
I do it again.
And again.
I don’t know how many times… I have lost count of the breaths I’ve taken of the grip MB has on my arm, or the way Quinn is looking at me, not with pity but understanding.
Has it really been that long since that night? Since his confession, since she did what she did?
Since we were caught.
Since she threatened us with everything.
It’s like Quinn can read my mind. His eyes lock on like a vice, and I can’t even blink as I stare into them, as memories wash over us. His hands cling to my shoulders in a familiar way that I refuse to forget.
MB’s watching us with concern. I can feel her anxiety, see her standing next to him, her eyes searching me for the bleeding when it’s all internal.
The pain, the blood, the trauma.
“She’s a bitch,” Quinn finally whispers. “And you didn’t deserve that—I’m sorry.” His voice cracks. “I’m so fucking sorry, Ambrose, I didn’t—I was drunk—and she used our friendship. She just—“
I pull him in for a brief hug. Apparently, I just touch and kiss people when I want them to stop talking. And then, in an uncharacteristic move, that feels like coming home. I press my mouth against his neck and breathe.