Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Swallowing and swiping the tears from my cheeks, I lie, “A little.”
I have to open up to someone, and if it’s going to be anyone, it will be Tatum. She and I have hit it off since day one, regardless of our differences. She’s become the yin to my yang, and above all, I trust her. Leaning forward, I flick the lock and the door opens to Tatum’s worried face. She steps inside the small stall, closes the door, and then locks it again. Dropping to her knees, she ignores the filthy ground, which is so unlike Tatum, the clean freak, but it also shows how much of a loyal friend she is.
“She means nothing to Bishop, honey. But I should have warned you about him. He’s never been exclusive to anyone except Khales.” She pauses and then pats my knee. “Don’t get me wrong,” she says with a laugh, “there have been a few others since her, but they’ve all been socialites, dosed in fame. No one has ever come close to bedding him from this school, or even college. And when I say there has been some, I mean, like, two girls that I know of. Well”—she tilts her head—“that the paparazzi have shot him with.”
“Paparazzi?” I question, a little horrified at why a paparazzi would take pictures of him.
“Well, aside from the girls he was with being famous, Bishop’s mom is famous too.”
“Huh,” I huff, swiping away my final tears. “How so?”
She smiles, her lips pulling into her mouth. “Well, his dad is well respected in New York. They own most of the Upper East Side. Real estate market and all that. And his mom is Scarlett Blanc.”
“Scarlett Blanc is his mom?”
Tatum nods. “Yeah. So as you can see….”
I do see. Scarlett Blanc is a very famous actress. “Interesting.” My tears have long since dried.
“Was that all? There’s nothing else causing this?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, nothing else,” I lie, because truthfully, I don’t want her to know I care. I don’t want anyone to know I care about how Bishop had Ally on his lap. That shows weakness, and I’ve never been good at showing vulnerability.
She takes my hand, pulling me up off the toilet seat. “Okay, so this is what we’re going to do.” She swipes the tears off my cheeks. “We’re going to never cry about Bishop Vincent Hayes again. Deal?”
I laugh, nodding. “Deal.”
We walk out of the bathroom, and Tatum turns to face me. “So Tillie wants to meet with us after school. Shall I catch a ride with you?”
I hitch up my books. “Yeah. I just have to head home and face Dad first, but you can come.”
“First time home since you got here?” she asks, an eyebrow quirked. To other people, the absentness of our parents is probably a foreign thing, but with me and Tatum, it’s all we’ve known. It’s a part of the package, whether we like it or not.
“Yeah, not that that’s the issue.”
“What is?” she asks, as we walk down the long corridor.
“Just the fact he told me to keep Nate at arm’s length for God knows what reason.”
Tatum smiles. “The club, that’s why. He would have heard all the stories, no doubt.”
I scoff. “I doubt it. My dad isn’t even from here. He’s from New Orleans, anyway.” I look toward the library longingly. “I’ll see you after school.” Then I power walk toward the library, leaving Tatum behind.
Swinging open the doors, I walk in and head straight toward where the book I picked up was.
“Madison?” the librarian, who I still haven’t caught her name, prompts, standing from her chair. She looks to be around mid-to-late thirties and doesn’t look like your typical cliché librarian. She’s funky, young-looking, and vibrant. No pantyhose and glasses on this one, nope. She has naturally red hair, pale skin, and a light sprinkle of freckles under her bright green eyes. Her skin is something to envy; it looks like silk. I try not to get too envious as I battle down my third zit this week.
“Hi.” I smile at her, clutching my books in my hand. “Sorry, I’m just going back to reading that book.”
She shakes her head. “No need to apologize. But can I ask what your fascination is with that particular book?” She quirks one eyebrow and leans against the desk, crossing her legs in front of herself.
“Honestly?” I scoff. “I couldn’t tell you. No idea.”
She watches me carefully, as if she’s trying to read between my words, and then exhales, her shoulders relaxing. “Go ahead. Just don’t be late to class.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, walking back toward the little corner in the library I was in a couple of days ago. Dumping my books on the table, I start scanning through all the old spines until I find the one I want. Exhaling out a long breath, I slip it out of its slot and walk back to my chair. The sun hits the old leather cover as I run the palm of my hand over it, over the circle emblem with the double infinity inside. What is with this book? Why do I feel so drawn to it, like a magnetic field? Shivers erupt over my spine as I flip it open, picking up where I left off.