Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 140742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
“Thanks for having me,” I say. “I always have a good time here.”
“You’re welcome here anytime you want, and you’re not allowed to pay for anything. I’m putting you on my personal list.”
“Oh, wow. Thank you so much. I feel so special.” I smile.
“As you should.” He lifts my hand to his mouth, eyes full of mischief when he kisses it and says, “Let me know if I can assist you with anything. And I do mean anything.”
I don’t hear the glass slam on the table, but I see it and practically jump away from Lucas, taking my hand back quickly as our heads whip to Finn, who’s scowling at us. Lucas smirks, and my heart skips a beat at the mere idea that Finn is actually reacting to this. That he might be … jealous? It’s impossible, I know. The man either has no feelings or masks them well, but the idea of it still thrills me. I open my mouth to greet him, but he sits back and whips his phone out. So much for the idea that he was jealous a second ago.
I smile at the two people with him and say goodbye, thanking them as they wish me a happy birthday. I walk away, silently fuming. Thankfully, the bathrooms here are huge, each with its own sink, so it’ll give me time to compose myself and think about something other than strangling Finn before I go back out there. I find an empty stall and practically slam the door shut.
If it weren’t for the way my entire body heats up when he looks at me with that intense gaze, I would think the night at Onyx had been a fever dream. I read once that attraction is like a drug. The levels of dopamine are so heightened that it makes you feel high. Seeing Finn doesn’t make me feel high. It makes me feel like what I imagine an addict feels when they’re coming down and crashing. After a few moments to myself, I take a deep breath and head to the sink. I don’t even need the bathroom, I'm just here to wash the salt off my hands from the last tequila shot I did.
After washing my hands and using the wet wipes to freshen up, I hold onto the edge of the counter and look at myself in the mirror, focusing on my calming breathing exercise. It’s something I’ve learned to do when I feel my anxiety climbing. Unlike what I portray to the world, I’m not always down for a party. For the most part, I love being around people for a few hours at a time, but by the end of the night, I always feel depleted. I don’t get hangovers from alcohol; I get emotional hangovers, which are much worse. The following day, I’m practically glued to my bed, so I’ve learned to alternate between water and drinks. I take one last deep breath and smile at my reflection.
When I open the door, I freeze in my tracks at the sight of Finn, who’s leaning against the wall across from the stalls, staring at me like I stole his lunch money.
14
JOSSLYN
“What do you want?”
He straightens suddenly, and my heart thunders when he takes a step forward. He stops when he’s at the halfway point between me and the exit.
“What if I told you I have proof that you lied to everyone, including the police?”
The last shot I took climbs to my throat. I clear it and manage to respond, “I’d say you’re the liar.”
“I don’t lie.” Another step toward me.
“What do you want me to do, Finn?” I ask.
Someone walks into the bathroom and we both look in their direction. The man glances over at us and walks into the first stall he sees. When Finn and I lock eyes again, it takes me a moment to remember what he just accused me of. The last time he cornered me like this, I remained silent and let him verbally attack me.
He was confused, pissed off, and grieving, and I knew from experience that he wanted—needed—someone to yell at. It’s in our nature to look for someone to blame when we’re hurting. Especially when inexplicable things happen. I’ll never forget the fierceness in his eyes or the way he seethed, “So strange that you were there that night and nothing happened to you,” as if I should’ve done something. I won’t let him berate me again.
“What do you want me to do?” I repeat. “I can’t go back and undo what happened. I wish I could. Trust me, I do, but I can’t. I’m sorry, okay? I’m so fucking sorry about that night…” My words catch, and I pause to swallow the ball of emotion in my throat that seems to keep growing. “You can hate me all you want, but it won’t change what happened.”