Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72591 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72591 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Clark opens the front door with one hand and shoves her out with the other before slamming the door in her face. I can hear the lock clicking into place, and then he turns back around and looks up at me, his expression a mixture of anger and guilt.
He moves toward me and the need to get away, to escape overwhelms me. I spin around and run up the stairs taking two steps at the time. My chest heaves, my heart pounding against my ribs trying to escape my chest like a trapped bird inside a wired cage. I hear him following me, which only adds to panic rising up inside me.
I make it to my room just in time, pulling the door shut behind me and turning the lock before Clark catches up to me. On wobbly legs, I walk backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed.
“Em, please open up. Don’t listen to her, she was just being a bitch, it’s what she’s good at.” His muffled voice comes through the door and I cover my ears with my hands for good measure. I don’t want to hear his soothing voice right now. I don’t want to hear anyone right now. I decided then that I was wrong about him, somehow he fooled me into believing that he was different, that he was one of the good guys. I should’ve known better, then again, I’ve never been a good judge of character.
Chapter Three
Clark
I haven’t been this fucking mad in a long time. Never in a million years did I think I would be spending the day trying to coax a girl out of her bedroom, a room that’s inside my house to make matters worse, but here I am. I do everything I can to get her to come out to, at least eat something, but she won’t budge.
Fucking Sarah, that witch and her stupid mouth really freaked her out. I could kick myself in the fucking ass for even opening the door, or fucking her in the first place.
For once in my life, I hate myself for being such a manwhore.
Emerson was just warming up to me, even giving me some small, timid smiles over breakfast. Well, I guess that’s shot to hell.
Fuck, I need a drink. I don’t think Emerson is going to open this door anytime soon. Not caring that it’s only two o’clock, I walk downstairs into the basement and open the liquor cabinet. An ache forms in my gut, it feels wrong to be drinking right now, but… shoving the thoughts away I pour the tumbler half full of whiskey and bring the glass filled with amber liquid to my lips. Just a sip. One sip. I only mean to take a sip but one sip isn’t enough to sedate me, and once the alcohol flicks against my tongue, and burns its way down my throat I decide to down the whole glass.
It’s impulsive, bad… and the words remind me of what my father really thinks of me.
The whiskey settles like a dumbbell in my stomach, familiar warmth expanding throughout my gut and without a doubt, I know this won’t be my last one. Seeing Emerson like this, broken and hurt, it hits too close to home. Memories of my mother flood my mind, images I often drown out with whiskey and a warm body.
I couldn’t help my mom, but maybe I can help her.
Maybe I can save Emerson.
Pouring another glass of whiskey, I let my thoughts drown underneath the amber liquid. I drink and drink, the hours ticking by with nothing more than the whiskey bottle and me.
By six o'clock I’m three sheets to the wind and Emerson still hasn’t come out of her room. Not even once. She needs to fucking eat. I make a turkey and ham sandwich to the best of my abilities and put it on a plate with some fruit and a cup of yogurt. No five-star meal, but as I proved this morning, I’m a shitty cook.
With the food in hand, I knock on her door softly. Trying to sound as sober as possible, I say, “I brought you some food. Please just open the door and take the food. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
Her steps are so soft I barely hear them through the door. The lock clicks and the doorknob turns. For the first time all day, it feels like I can breathe. Emerson pulls the door open slowly, stopping when there is enough space for me to stick just the plate through. She lifts her hand and takes it, but before she can pull away and shut the door in my face, I make a rash decision. Grabbing hold of the wooden door frame, I pull the door open all the way.