Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84013 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84013 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
What the hell is wrong with me?
I pick up the diary and squint at the writing. I need a distraction right now. Reading it hasn’t been as hard as I thought it might be. There’s so much in here, so much of Megan and so much of the life we had together, but I’m starting to understand that she was a lot more than I thought. She was close with a lot of people, from Fiona to girls at school that I barely ever talked to. She had this big web of friendships, and while I remained at the center, at the top of her list, I was never her entire world.
Not like she was for me.
I thought it might be painful to realize my best friend had a rich life without me, but it’s honestly not. It almost makes me feel better to know that she was happy and loved and well liked and so damn busy. It’s like she fit a hundred lifetimes into her short years.
That doesn’t solve anything, though. It doesn’t fix a thing. I scan a few pages, looking for names, anything that might point me in the right direction, when I pause on a paragraph halfway down. Monday. Hung out with Dale after school. When she left, S and Q stopped by, brought me the new phone. I should probably stop soon!
My heart starts racing. I don’t know who S and Q are, but that bit about bringing her a phone and needing to stop, that sets off all sorts of alarm bells. Why would someone bring her a new phone? I vaguely remember her getting a nice iPhone, but I thought she bought it with her own money.
Did S and Q pay for that phone? Why the hell would they do that?
A twig nearby snaps and I sit up. The tree house creaks under my weight. It’s been years since I came out here and sat up in the boards, and I’m honestly surprised it hasn’t fallen in the last decade, but everything seems solid. Dad and Shane built this for us a year before Shane died, and I used to spend so much time out here with Nolan and Callum when I was younger, then later with Megan. This was my hideout, my fort. My world away from the clan.
I peer over the side. Rian’s down below, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed over his chest. He spots me and his lips curl, and a sharp pang of excitement races down my core.
I can’t let what happened yesterday in the subway start making things even more complicated. Just because he got me off doesn’t mean we’ll keep doing it. I have to remind myself that Rian is not the person he used to be. Rian’s violent now, more dangerous, more impulsive. He’s a clan thug, and I hate guys like him.
I don’t find him attractive.
I don’t find him exciting.
He doesn’t make me feel safe.
He doesn’t make me dripping wet.
He’s just another asshole.
“Where’s the diary, Daley?” His smile tenses and I can see the anger in his jaw.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Nolan said he saw you come out here with a book. I know you have it.”
Stupid Nolan dimed me out. I knew Rian would want the diary back today, and I came out here specifically to avoid him.
“I’m going through it right now, okay? You can have it when I’m done.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that diary and planning for what I’d do when I got it. I want it back, Daley. You’ve had it long enough. Now it’s my turn.”
“Too damn bad. Go home.”
He glares at me, then strides over to the tree house and begins to climb up the board ladder nailed into the tree trunk. I move to the far side of the main section, looking around. There’s nowhere for me to go—only one way up and one way down. There’s a makeshift roof, just canvas tacked over an A-frame, and I think about trying to climb along a different branch.
But too late. Rian hauls himself into the fort and looks at me, showing his teeth.
I half expect the whole thing to topple, but it holds.
He’s wearing jeans and a short-sleeve, black shirt. His muscular frame bulges as he comes toward me, crawling on hands and knees. The fort was made for little kids, not for full-grown adults, and now it feels crowded by the bulk of Rian’s chest and arms. I’m pressed against the far wall, my back against old wood pitted and stained with time, the diary clutched to my chest.
Rian stops inches from me and holds out a hand. “Give it.” He says it like he expects obedience, and that only pisses me off more.
“Go away,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m almost done, okay? When I’m finished, you can have it.”