Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 119230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
NEXT TIME, YOU CUM ON MY FINGERS.
I might as well dig a hole and fall into it. How the hell am I supposed to face the day knowing he watched me getting myself off last night? Hell, how the fuck did he even get in here? I made sure the window was locked, plus the door too. I was careful. The blinds were drawn and all my bases were covered. He shouldn’t have been able to come in.
But those fucking blinds. I’ll be replacing those fuckers the first chance I get.
How could I be so stupid? I suppose I’m lucky, I was mostly hidden beneath the blanket. He couldn’t have seen anything, though how can I ever be sure? Does the asshole have cameras in here? I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s got a sick mind.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why couldn’t I have just gone to town on myself while I was locked away safely in the shower? I had to do it in bed, had to do it right by the window that I know Tanner Morgan likes to look through. I’m an idiot, no doubt about it.
Trying to put it to the back of my head, I throw my blankets back and get ready for school before grabbing some wet wipes and trying to get the eyeliner off the mirror. It’s one thing for someone to walk in and see his other message in lipstick, but this one … no. I’d die if anyone saw this, especially my mom.
Making my way downstairs, I find Mom and Orlando in the kitchen while Jensen sits at the breakfast bar, helping himself. “Morning, honey,” Mom sings as she busily goes about her morning, today wearing a pristine cream pantsuit that probably costs more than my car. “Are you hungry? I made pancakes.”
My stomach rumbles but seeing the pancakes over by Jensen, I’d rather starve. “I’m okay. I wanted to get to school early,” I say, secretly happy that Jensen seems to be giving me space. “My English teacher wants me to write an essay to get a feel for where I am academically, and I wanted to get a start on that before I get lumbered with more homework.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Orlando says, turning to face me with a heavy scowl. “Your mother has slaved in the kitchen to prepare you a nice meal. Now take your seat and eat your breakfast. You can work on your essay this afternoon.”
I gape at him before flicking my gaze toward Mom, who watches me with a cringe, and without a doubt, I know she’s not going to have my back on this. I barely resist scoffing at her. There was once a time where nothing was more important than my schoolwork. Mom wanted me to succeed, push myself and get the hell out of Hope Falls to create a better life for myself, but now, what her filthy rich sugar daddy wants, her filthy rich sugar daddy gets.
“With all due respect, sir. You may have offered up your home, but don’t be mistaken. You are not my father, and you certainly don’t get a say in how and when I tackle my schoolwork. I appreciate that you have paid my tuition to a fancy private school, really, I am. However, I didn’t ask for this. I was taken from the home that I loved, from the school where I grew up, from my friends, and thrown headfirst into this life that more than likely comes with an expiry date. My education comes before … whatever this is.”
“Brielle,” my mother gasps, feigning surprise despite having seen it coming a mile away. “Apologize right this instant.”
“No, don’t Brielle me, Mom. Do you know you’re his third or fourth girlfriend to have moved in here over the past two years? TWO YEARS, MOM! Do you not see how messed up that is? This is all an act. You have literally never cooked me breakfast on a school day, like ever. This is all a show for your new boyfriend and his pervert son, and it’s all for nothing because in a few months, he’s going to be done with you, and we’ll be right back where we started, only you’ll be broken and hating yourself for falling for his charm.”
“You are out of line,” Orlando demands, rage burning through his features as Mom presses her hand to her chest, gasping in horror for my terrible behavior. “My son is not a pervert. He is a respectable young man with a promising career at his fingertips. How dare you make such an allegation.”
“I said what I said,” I tell him, holding my ground, almost feeling guilty about it. “Though I’m curious, have you disclosed the fact that your son attacked a girl on school grounds last year before you asked my mother to move herself and her eighteen-year-old daughter into your home, or did that just slip your mind?”