Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Even more surprising than that, I might just want him to stick around.
17
Hayes
With a quick peek at my phone, I take the stairs to the second floor two at a time. As I round the corner to my bedroom, Bridger steps into the hallway. The purple smudges under his eyes and the tightness around his mouth tell me everything I need to know.
“Hey, man,” I say, slowing down. “You doing all right?”
I almost wince.
Stupid question.
Of course he’s not.
It seems like every day a new message is popping up and his father is up his ass about it.
His jaw tightens as he drags a hand through his already mussed hair. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Any closer to figuring out who’s behind this shit?” I ask, crossing my arms against my chest.
His gray gaze flicks to mine. Frustration is written across the tight lines of his face. “No. But when I do, I swear, I’m going to bury them.”
With a frown, I shake my head. “I don’t get it. Who could hate you enough to do this?”
Bridger’s one of the easiest guys on the team to get along with. He’s smart, athletic, and popular, but he’s not a dick about it. The idea that someone’s out there with a grudge big enough to go after him like this… it doesn’t add up.
He exhales sharply, the tension in his shoulders never easing. “I don’t know. But I’m so fucking tired of it. I’m going through hell while they hide behind a screen like a coward.”
“Yeah, it’s messed-up.” I clench my fists. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
His lips twitch, but it’s a far cry from a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
With a nod, I twist the handle to my door. “Seriously, if you need anything...”
“Yeah, I know.” He gives me a grim smile. “A few of us were gonna go out and grab some food. You want in?”
“Wish I could, but I’ve got a paper due at midnight.”
“Good luck with that,” he mutters, already walking toward the stairs. “I’ll catch you later.”
I watch him disappear before slipping into my room. After closing the door behind me, I twist the lock and lean against it for a second as Ava’s face flashes in my mind. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way she dropped her guard and opened up at the rink. The pain that flooded her voice as she told me about her old coach. The way she was groomed and manipulated by someone she trusted.
It’s so fucked-up.
It takes effort to refocus my attention on the business at hand. I’ve got two minutes to clear my mind. I strip off my clothes in record time, leaving them in a heap on the floor. When I’m wearing nothing but my boxer briefs, I grab my laptop and drag the desk chair over to the bed, positioning it before flipping it open. The camera light blinks on, and I adjust the angle until it’s a perfect shot of me stretched out on the mattress.
Earbuds in, music filling the silence, I close my eyes and force myself to get into the right headspace. It’s been a routine for a while now, something I’ve perfected over the years.
It’s easy money.
Usually.
But tonight, I can’t shake the heaviness sitting in my chest.
I see Ava’s face again. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, the raw pain in her voice when she told me how it all went down with Nathan.
How he’d crossed every line and shattered her trust.
It makes me fucking sick to my stomach.
I’d like nothing more than to find that asshole and make him pay for what he did to her.
For the damage he caused, the way he made her feel small and used.
Even when the first few comments pop up on the screen, people already tuning in, all I can think about is how much I hate the idea of her still having to deal with him.
Still receiving those texts.
I flex my abs and shift on the bed, needing to get my head back in the game, but it’s useless. The more I try to push Ava out of my mind, the more I feel this growing need to protect her.
To be there for her in a way no one else has been.
And that’s the scariest part of all.
Since those thoughts aren’t conducive to what needs to happen, I force them from my head for a second time and allow my hand to stroke over my chest. It’s so damn tempting to rush through this, but I refuse to do that.
That’s not what these people are paying for.
And since I need the money, I force myself to slow my roll and draw out every touch and stroke of my hand.
At the end of the day, it’s not about me.
It’s about them.
The people paying good money to see me get off.