Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Want anything to eat before I tell Pete to head out? It’s dead tonight, so I’m going to close up early.”
“Oh,” I say, shocked by how late it’s gotten. “I’m good. Let me just…” I save my work, then start to gather my things.
“You’re fine. Stay as long as you want. Just lock up for me before you go, yeah?” Lo drops her keys onto the table in front of me.
“Are you sure?”
She looks at me with an eyebrow arched. “Why wouldn’t I be? I have a spare set at home anyway.”
I shrug. I don’t know the rules about these things. “I’ll be done soon.”
“Stay however long you need.”
I look past her, seeing her boyfriend Dare waiting for her at the door, sporting a plain white tee, arms full of colorful ink, brooding expression. Jesus, that guy is hot in that intense, intimidating-as-fuck kind of way. He owns Bad intentions, the tattoo shop next door, so they’re back and forth a lot.
Once Lo is within reach, he grabs a handful of her ass, pulling her toward him for a kiss. She melts into him, laughing as she bites into his lower lip. He groans, getting lost in her before his eyelids pop open, landing on me. I look away, cheeks burning, and then he’s tugging on her hand, pulling her outside. I wasn’t watching them because I’m some kind of perv. I guess I was just trying to understand. It’s not that I don’t think love exists. On the contrary, actually. Love is real. Powerful. It has the potential to destroy you. To start wars and end lives. Love is a weapon. Love is dangerous, and I want nothing to do with it.
I watched how love made my mom the happiest person in the world. Then she became the craziest person in the world. And when my dad died, the saddest person in the world, even though they hadn’t been together for years. Don’t even get me started on the men who’ve come and gone since. I’ve found my mother sobbing on the bathroom floor, unable to work, eat, or function more times than I can count. All because of some guy. Why would anyone subject themselves to that kind of emotional torture? I promised myself at a young age that I’d never be like her. I’d never let love make me crazy.
Pushing those thoughts away, I look down at my phone, deliberating my next move. I’m low on options. I could call Dylan. Again. I could try to find a hotel room in my budget for tonight only—not likely in this tourist town.
Or…I could simply stay here. Lo did say I could stay as long as I want. What’s the worst that could happen? I stand, walking toward the entrance, and flip the lock. Pete must have left when I was stuck in my thoughts, not bothering to say goodbye. Typical. I raid the kitchen, looking for something small and simple to ease the burning pit in my stomach. I settle for a banana, tossing the peel into the trash. I munch on it, flipping all the lights off around the bar, leaving only the back room on.
Once I’m finished, I set the alarm on my phone, so that I can be out of here long before people show up, and crawl back into my booth, curling into a ball on my side. I lift my hood over my head and pull my sleeves down to cover most of my hands in an effort to get warmer. Fingering the cracked leather bench, I start to form a mental game plan, but I don’t get far before my eyelids grow heavy and sleep takes over.
* * *
FOUR DAYS I’VE BEEN SECRETLY sleeping at Blackbear, and even though Dylan has since returned my calls, I haven’t clued him in on my living situation. It sounds crazy, but I’d actually rather sleep in a booth than stay at his party pad. It’s quiet at Blackbear. Private. I can eat, sleep, do my schoolwork, and stare at my journal, willing the words to come without interruption. The only thing I can’t do is shower, but I was able to sneak into the dorms a couple of times. I know I need to figure something else out. The longer I stay, the more likely it is that I’ll get caught. I feel guilty for taking advantage of Lo when she’s been nothing but nice to me, but I’m not hurting anyone.
I’m walking through the quad on my way to my next class, the ground still frozen solid, even though the sun is trying to peek out for the first time this year, when I hear someone shout from behind me.
“Hey,” a boy with a blond buzzed cut says, jogging up to me. He’s wearing a flannel over a Vandals tee and fitted jeans. Chuck Taylors on his feet. “Allison, right?” he says, smoothing a flat hand over his short hair.