Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 144840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 724(@200wpm)___ 579(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 724(@200wpm)___ 579(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Tension that tugs a lot like anger wraps around my shoulders, but I roll it out and head for the court.
Right as I drop my backpack, my phone goes off in my hand, and I glance to the screen. My pulse kicks when I see her name. It’s fucking irritating.
I must be annoyed, pent up or somethin’, ‘cause this shit’s whack.
Little Bishop: I tried, but that was weird.
My lip twitches, but I force a frown quickly.
Me: don’t know what you’re talking about.
Little Bishop: sure you do.
Smart-ass.
Little Bishop: I say hi to the mailman when I see him. I’m not going to pass by you and not say hi.
Me: so I’m on equal playing ground as a mailman? Nice.
Like an elbow in a game of street ball, confusion knocks hard at my ribs.
Why’d I send that?!
Little Bishop: You are DEFINITELY not on the same level as the mailman.
That’s right. I’m not.
Little Bishop: He says hi first...
A scoffed laugh escapes.
This girl, I swear.
Little Bishop: So yeah, this is your fair warning. I’m going to say hi when I see you because I want to, but I won’t be showy about it. Promise. Nobody will ever even assume we’ve spoken a word to each other.
That last line shouldn’t piss me off.
In fact, I’m pretty fucking sure it should do the opposite, but like I said, I must be annoyed today.
Irritation heats my limbs.
Strangers.
Just another person in the hall, not connected to us, not protected by us, but watched out for by other Bray employees, like one of their own.
Bray employees like the ones she’s chatting up in the cafeteria, that smile and laugh at her ‘cause they know an honest girl when they meet one, spot a beaten soul when they cross one, and soak up light when it’s in reach.
She’s in their reach.
And fuck me, the girl’s got a lot of light.
“Royce.”
I look to my brother.
Maddoc rolls the basketball between his fingers, eyeing me.
I tap my phone in my palm, and his gaze narrows.
I look to Captain, and then the girls who chat at the picnic table not five feet away.
With a nod, I stuff my phone in my pocket, and clap my hands together, asking for the ball.
Maddoc passes it my way, and I slowly dribble forward, but my foot barely passes the foul line. I abandon the thing and spin on my fucking heels.
In my peripheral, the girls’ heads turn, following me.
I throw the cafeteria door open, knowing it will slam against the wall, only to fly back and hit even harder on the frame. The shit’s loud and gains the attention of everyone around.
Everyone but the silver-haired thing in the corner.
She continues to stare forward, her laughter rippling across the room, outshining every sound and pissing me off.
Jonah, one of our ground’s boys, sits in front of her, his eyes popping up to mine as I slip closer.
Those around are waiting, watching. Holding their damn breaths. They pretend not to be, but they are. Every fuckin’ one of them.
Brielle finally notices the table’s attention slipped over her head and glances over her shoulder.
The air in the room shifts, each and every one growing stiff while waiting on shriveled sacks.
Not her though.
Brielle doesn’t tense or freeze or jolt, doesn’t put on a sassy smirk or lean forward to put her chest on display for me, doesn’t trip or try to spice up the least bit.
No fear, no flex.
The girl spins in her chair and fuckin’ smiles, wide and welcoming.
Pleased, and not in a conceited, knowing way.
Goddamn, if it doesn’t take effort to not pause my own punk boy steps.
There’s a heavy beat in my palms, unexpected adrenaline firing through me and making my limbs grow heavy. Tired.
It’s almost enough for me to walk away.
Fuck’s happening here?
Brielle’s elbow is propped up, so she lays her head on her folded fist.
With a whole helluva lot of effort, I force my eyes from her, look across the table, and nod at the guys. A few lift their fists and I meet them with mine.
These are the assholes who have our backs, and we have their paychecks. There’s respect there, loyalty, and it goes both ways.
They don’t know Brielle’s off-limits.
Fuckin’ Christ.
I look to Brielle.
Her smile deepens.
A weight falls on my chest, right where the center of my chain hangs, my family crest.
Off-limits?
“What up, man?” Micah grins, stepping beside me.
I jerk my chin, not bothering to look his way. I might want to nut check him if I do, and I don’t care to know why.
“Not much. Just came to grab somethin’.”
Her eyes flash with amusement, and the turquoise brightens, reminding me of the waters in Panama, where our dad took us on our last family vacation more than a decade ago before shit here hit the fan and kept on spinning.
“Anything, man.” Micah nods, hungry to please, to prove himself. “Tell me what you need.”