Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
It must have something to do with me.
Fucking Zak and his stupid feelings.
I try to figure out why Zak is pissed at Atlas since he didn’t do anything besides exist and deny him in swapping seats. As my brother asks Atlas yet another question, I find my gaze once more falling to the man in front of me.
He’s intense.
In a way Jax or Dante could never be.
Atlas gives off “I don’t give a fuck” vibes which is almost amusing considering his new job.
A rebel for a cop.
I’m intrigued.
As I study the way the light turns part of his messy, dark blond hair into glowing shimmers of golden red, I have the urge to paint. It sparks such surprise in me, I audibly gasp. Atlas’s deep blue eyes—the color of the deepest part of the ocean—bore into me. With just one stare, he unlatches the lid on my head and takes a peek inside.
It’s irritating.
That with one look, he can see me.
I want to peel my stare from his captivating eyes, but I’m struck by how long his eyelashes are. They seem to create almond-shaped curtains around the windows to his rebellious soul, forcing my attention there. Since I’m a rebellious fuck myself, I tear my gaze from his entrancing eyes to his nose. Strong. Proud. A fucking dent right at the top. An imperfection on this god-like man nearly draws a genuine smile from my lips.
Nearly.
I suppress it because I’m quite good at suppressing a lot of things these days.
Speaking of smiles, I let my focus fall to his mouth. Full, surprisingly red lips. Soft for such a rugged man. I wonder if he tastes like Jack Daniels or s’mores or smoke or some other equally redneck flavor. I’m incensed by the fact that I’d be willing to have a sample, despite my pretentious New York upbringing.
Apparently, part of my rebellion is wanting to slum it with the seriously hot fucker old enough to be my father. And that piece of information should turn my stomach, not make my dick twitch to life despite just having been sucked not long ago.
I can feel Zak’s incredulous, glowering stare burning into my flesh, but I can’t seem to pull my fixation away from Atlas’s mouth. Sort of red yet sort of pink. The color of watermelon or Shelly’s favorite wine or cotton candy when it gets wet from your tongue. His face is sprinkled with more of that dark blond hair dusted with golden red, not trimmed neatly but unruly and unrefined. Some wiry hairs stick out, and my fingers twitch to reach over and touch them. Could I smooth them out, or would they prickle my fingertips and disobey?
A heavy, booted foot rests on top of one of my Vans. This draws my attention back to his eyes as I wonder if it was an accident. The intense way he stares at me tells me it’s on purpose. Heat burns up my spine, flashing over my neck like a gasoline-induced fire, before settling on my cheeks. This causes one side of his pinky-red lips to quirk. Not quite a smile, but quite…something.
I wonder, again, about the color of his lips. Do they match the color of the fire on my cheeks? Could I recreate it with a paintbrush on canvas? The urge to create splinters through me like a kaleidoscope of brilliant reds and oranges and yellows. It’s warm and familiar. Something I haven’t felt in a very long time.
Not since…
Thoughts of Hank Townsend have the black curtain of I hate this life dropping in front of me, veiling the world around me. A cold shudder creeps across my flesh, causing goosebumps to rise and the hairs to stick straight up. Fear of something that can’t hurt me any longer grips my throat.
I can’t breathe.
“I need air,” I manage to croak before pushing back from the table. I storm out the front door, forgetting my coat, and nearly shrivel when the cool Atlantic air slices through me.
I’m glaring at the wind, even though I can’t see it, ignoring the burn it causes in my eyes. My lungs have frozen against the assault, making my efforts to get air a moot point. I suck in a ragged breath that feels like a thousand needles poking my lungs. Dizziness washes over me as my eyes water.
The door opens as someone joins me.
“Hey,” Zak says, concern dripping from his one word. “Come here.”
Because I’m a selfish bastard, I lean into Zak’s open arms, burying my face against his hard shoulder. It’s cruel to do this to him—keep him hanging on by a few threads when I should just cut him free altogether. I can’t let him go, though. He’s my best friend. I don’t know how to only be that for him without breaking him in some way.