Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
“You were just being a bottom-feeding, shitstain excuse of a human being is what,” I snarl, marching right up to him and jabbing a finger into his ghost-white face.
“This isn’t fucking over, Ian.”
I move over to Waverly, stoop down, and scoop her easily into my arms. She murmurs, licking her lips in her sleep as her head lolls against my chest. I turn, being sure to step on a still-puking Scott’s hands as I storm past him, giving Ian a withering look.
“This is not over,” I growl before I storm off with her in my arms back to my car. She stirs, arching her brows before she half-cracks her eyes open and look up at me. Slowly, a big, warm smile spreads across her lips.
“You’ve got really pretty eyes you know,” she drawls, grinning sleepily at me before she closes her eyes and drops her cheek back against my chest. She’s so warm, and so perfect in my arms, and I can feel my pulse quicken.
“Where’re we goin?” she mumbles.
“I’m taking you home.”
Her eyes suddenly fly open.
“No!”
“Waverly—”
“Nooo, Coach,” she groans. “Please don’t.”
I frown. “Waverly, you have to—”
“My mom will kiiiiiill me,” she mumbles.
“Yeah, well, too bad,” I growl.
Waverly shakes her head, her face crumbling.
“Please, Coach. She thinks I’m at the dorms saying in Sasha’s room.”
I pause I get to my SUV, my jaw tightening as the wheels begin to spin.
Don’t do this. Do NOT do what you’re thinking about doing.
I know I should just take her home. Of course, I should. But then, my mind goes to all the questions that would obviously come up from Natasha. Like, oh say, why was my drunk eighteen-year-old daughter calling her Coach at ten o’clock at night to come pick her up from a party? Not to mention, I have no idea what Waverly might just blurt out in this state.
I groan, squeezing my eyes shut as she sleeps against my chest.
Just take her home. Take her home. To HER home.
I open the passenger side door and set her down gently, buckling her up and letting her head loll against the headrest as I gently shut the door and then move to my side.
Don’t fucking do it. Do NOT fucking do it.
And in the end, I take her home.
…My home.
9
Waverly
I wake up in a panic.
My mouth is dry, it’s dark, and it’s so hot under the covers.
…What the fuck.
My pulse spikes as I viciously kick the blankets away, my hand flying to touch my body before I suddenly sigh as the relief washes over me.
I’m wearing clothes. Thank fucking God.
I swallow, shivering as I sit up in the strange, huge bed and look around the strange, huge room. The bedroom is really tastefully done, with nice art on the walls, fancy furniture, and a wall of big floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking woods and what I think is the river.
Where the fuck am I?
My eyes move to the bedside table, and I frown as I see the big glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol sitting there, next to a nicely folded white t-shirt and a pair of black shorts. My head aches, and though it’s not too bad, I reach for the bottle of Tylenol and pop two before I down about half the glass of water.
I slide from the bed, feeling a little grimy as I pull the tank top I wore to the party off and slip on the big, oversized t-shirt. I peel my jeans off, which are wet and grass-stained at the cuffs and knee, frowning as I toss them aside and pull on the shorts, which I quickly realize are men’s black boxers.
I guzzle the rest of the water before my head clears a little more, and I bend down to grab my phone from my jeans.
It’s dead.
I frown as I stand, glancing around the moonlit bedroom.
“Hello?” I whisper. There’s no response.
I pad to the door, opening it slowly and glancing out into the hallway.
“Hello?” I say it a little louder this time, but there’s still no response. I step into the hallway, glancing around as I walk down it towards what looks like a much bigger room. To my right, a wall of windows like the ones in the bedroom looks out over the river and downtown Southworth across it, and I frown.
Where the fuck am I?
I keep walking slowly, but when I turn to look at the wall to my left and see it covered with framed photos, I suddenly freeze as the realization hits me.
…Almost every picture has Camden in it.
I’m at Camden’s house.
Slowly, it starts to come back to me. I remember calling him, sort of, but I don’t remember what I even said to him and thinking of all the things I very well could have said to him makes me cringe. My eyes glance over the pictures—pictures of him looking much younger in a swimming speedo posing next to a pool holding a gold medal. Him and some other guys smiling and grinning at the camera giving thumbs up. I blink, my jaw dropping as I spot the pictures of him standing between Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte, basically the two most insanely gifted pro swimmers in history.