Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
The engine cut as the rider, clearly frustrated by the obstruction of the guards, climbed off, stomping combat boots on the ground, kicking up dry dirt with the motion.
"What's going on?" West called as we got closer.
"Got someone who says they need to talk to Reign," one of the guards, some young guy I had only seen a handful of times, likely new to Hailstorm, told us.
"Well, they'll have to settle for us," West declared, having a somewhat impressively authoritative voice when he needed to for someone who was usually a lot of light and laughter.
The rider reached upward, unclasping their helmet, pulling it off their head.
Without the shadows cast by the helmet, their face was in perfect view.
A very familiar face.
"Jesus Christ," my voice hissed out of me as my body jolted with awareness, with recognition, with the absolute impossibility of this reality.
"What am I missing?" West asked, and I could feel his gaze on my profile, could hear the understanding that something had just changed, and he was completely unaware.
Because all of this, well, it went down before West was a member of the MC, before West was even in Navesink Bank.
He knew the stories.
But he'd never seen the girl.
No.
Not the girl.
She was most definitely not a girl anymore.
She had the same face, sure, the same up-and-down sort of body type. If anything, she was even thinner than she had been when I had last seen her, possessed fewer curves.
The last time I saw her, her shining black hair had been freshly buzzed for the first time. Now, it was cropped short at the sides, but longer on top, an edgy look that somehow fit her very delicate, almost doll-like face, made her gray eyes pop.
The eyes, though, the eyes were so different from the last time I had seen them, from how I thought of them in my memories.
See, when your little sister had a best friend, and you were your little sister's chauffeur, you got to know her friends really fucking well. Whether you wanted to or not.
But she had always been different. Not vapid or catty. She was a reader, a music connoisseur, a bit of a philosopher even at age sixteen.
I didn't mind that she tagged along, that she was always trying to get my attention, always trying to engage me in conversation. Because, quite frankly, the things she had to talk about were usually a lot deeper than the shit my bandmates wanted to talk about. Which usually just had to do with sex positions and which mainstream bands had made it big because they sold out their sound.
She'd always had interesting eyes. Ones that showed everything from excitement to annoyance.
But those eyes, those gray eyes I had been so familiar with all those years ago, yeah, they were completely fucking unreadable.
"Oh, shit. Is this some fucking meet-cute moment?" West asked, voice losing all its authority, going light and fun and sarcastic as was more his nature. "Where is the harp music? Let me guess, she is some big city girl, coming to slum it in our little town to pursue her dreams of making artisanal cupcakes in the shape of sloths. And she just so happens to stop here for directions. And the two of you lock eyes and live happily ever after. Am I right?" he asked, looking between the two of us, both of us seemingly unable to believe what we were seeing when we looked at each other.
"Who are you, beautiful?" he asked, and there was still a smile in his voice.
"Ferryn." The name rushed out of my lips, as airless and unsure as I was feeling at that very moment, the entire world seemingly thrown off its axis, knocking everything sideways.
In what world was Ferryn here, now?
How the hell was I the one to first see her?
Why was she back after all this time?
When her parents were out of town?
"Whoa, fuck. Hold up. Ferryn. As in the Ferryn? Little runaway Ferryn?"
To that, those lifeless eyes of hers shifted from my face, letting me snap out of the stupor I had been stuck in—time and life and my damn heartbeat standing still.
"And who the hell are you?" she asked.
Again, I knew that voice.
But it lacked something.
It seemed colder.
It shivered over my skin.
It left goosebumps in its wake.
"West," he supplied, seemingly unaffected by her tone, by her dead eyes. But, then again, he hadn't known her when her voice was honey sweet, when her eyes danced and smiled. "I was starting to think you were just a girl from a story. Just a tale the old guys told."
"Well, that girl is just a story now," Ferryn supplied, making West's brow quirk up.
"Yeah, I think I am getting that, pretty lady," West agreed.
Ferryn was someone discussed often. They'd share old anecdotes, tales of her escapades, always followed by a collective solemnness from all those who had known her, those who had missed her, those who felt acutely the hole her absence had left behind.