Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
An unease deepens in my gut and I try to ignore it, try to focus on the cool breeze blowing through the short-clipped grass and the horses grazing in the distance, but I can’t shake this feeling.
Something feels off about that name.
We reach the far fence and spot Ford coming toward us. Kat’s husband is a big guy, handsome if you’re into the muscles-and-tattoos type, which isn’t exactly my thing, but Ford’s charming and outgoing and treats Kat right, so he’s a good guy in my book. Walking beside him is the new buyer, and a sudden spike of chilled fear runs down my spine and lodges in my feet, my toes tingling with a sudden anxiety.
Warren Temple is around Ford’s height. He has light hair cut short and pushed back, a square jaw, a crooked nose, full lips, and although I can’t see them from where I’m standing, I know his eyes are a strange, piercing blue color, like the ocean in the middle of a solar eclipse. He’s in slim navy-blue slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled at the elbows showing off black tattoos. Where Ford’s blocky and muscular, the buyer is slouchy and slim, athletic but in a toned and easy sort of way, like he spends all day swimming and rowing and playing polo. He walks with confidence, struts and glides like he knows everyone’s staring at him and he doesn’t mind it, and his eyes stare straight ahead—stare straight at me.
The men reach us and stop. The buyer’s smile quirks at the edge of his lips and I take a step back away from the gate. Ford says something and gestures at the man, and Kat introduces herself to him, but my heart’s racing so fast in my ears I feel like I might throw up.
“Hello, Melody,” the buyer says and steps forward, grinning now. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“War?” I blurt out in a sudden fit of confusion. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Everyone stares at me like I’ve gone insane. Which is fair, considering the situation. Everyone except for War. He only looks amused, that same old smile, the look like he couldn’t care less about anything at all, like the world’s a game and he loves to play, but never bothers to think about winning or losing.
Memories, old and long dead, the sort of memories I’ve worked hard to bury, swirl back to the surface. My days at Jameson Prep, those dark days in that ugly little school, and a boy everyone called War. A boy everyone loved, a boy even the faculty adored. Tall, slouchy, outgoing. A loud, bombastic laugh. The class clown. A troubled boy. A boy surrounded with rumors and problems and excuses and pain. A string of broken hearts. An asshole and a thief and a bully. A boy that was my friend one second and gone the next. Now suddenly back from the mists of my long-past life like he never disappeared.
Last I saw War, he was a gangly fifteen-year-old taking puberty in the face like a hungry tiger. Even with the bad skin and the too-long legs, War was handsome in a boyish way. Now, he’s even more gorgeous, tanned and lean and fit, with clothes that must cost a small mortgage and a smile that suggests he’s at home pretty much anywhere he goes. This is the sort of man that expects the world to get down on its knees and to give him exactly what he wants, and the sort of man that gets it. Even back then, War was magnetic, and everyone claimed him as a friend, but nobody was actually close with him. I can’t remember ever seeing War outside of school as if he didn’t exist after the last bell rang. War was a mystery. But even back then, I was smart enough to keep my distance.
“You know each other?” Kat asks, sounding confused.
“We go way back,” War confirms and glances at Ford. “I didn’t realize she was the Melody.”
“How do you know each other?” Ford asks, shading his eyes.
War nudges his cousin’s shoulder. “We went to school together. Remember that awful prep academy my parents shoved me into when I was a kid?”
Ford makes a face. “How long did you last there? A semester?”
“Two years,” War says and glances at me. “I met Melody toward the end of my tenure at that lovely institution.”
By now, I’ve gotten myself under control. It’s not like I left things in a bad place with War back in the day—frankly, we were never that close, more like decent acquaintances that chatted in the halls and during classes but not much else—it’s only that I try very hard not to let that life leak into this little world I’ve built for myself, and any reminder of the person I used to be is beyond unwelcome. But War’s not the problem, and if he’s here to buy Bomber then I need to suck it up, get myself together, and slap a smile on my face. I have a horse to sell.