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)
I shrug because I don’t have an answer. Zak’s not my boyfriend, but he did give me the hickey on my neck. “Not the only one I’ve got.” Okay, so that’s a lie, but it’s worth the slight flare of Atlas’s nostrils.
“Where’s the other one?”
“One?” I lift an eyebrow at him.
His gaze darkens as he so obviously imagines where else the supposed hickeys might be. My dick is stupid hard in my too-tight jeans. I adjust myself as discreetly as possible.
Atlas sees.
I can tell by the slight clenching of his jaw and how his Adam’s apple does a jump in his throat.
Everything seems louder and brighter and more intense since Atlas sat down in front of me. It’s equal parts confusing and exciting. I haven’t…felt…in a while.
Not like this.
Sounds are like caresses. Smells are like strokes. Sights are like kisses.
And I’m stuck staring at his not quite red, not quite pink lips again.
Yes.
I’m going to paint.
I’m going to paint that mouth.
Maybe tomorrow will be a red day.
The thought of wearing something other than the endless rotation of black concert tees is alarmingly refreshing. I didn’t realize how much I craved color until I got another visual taste of it. Now, I want to gorge myself on the brilliance of every shade red has to offer. I want to see and feel and live in each variation—a hundred of which all live on his lips alone.
Atlas is bad news.
I can feel it.
If I were smart, I’d run my ass into Zak’s arms, give in to his wants, and forget I ever laid eyes on Atlas’s captivatingly red lips.
But I haven’t been smart. Not since the day I stepped foot in Brigs Ferry Bay. In fact, I’ve done every stupid thing possible.
This is a fucking train wreck waiting to happen.
Atlas
A week later…
I’m such a fucking douchebag.
First day on the job, and I’m stalking my nemesis. Dean Bell’s Suburban sits in the same parking spot at the Beacon Hills Golf Club for hours. The only thing that’s open at one in the morning on this side of town is the pretentious bar inside the country club that all the old fuckers hang out at.
I’ve got you, asshole.
While I should be patrolling the highway in and out of Brigs Ferry Bay or Main Street, I’m patiently sitting in the dark at the edge of the large parking lot. It’s currently filled with cars, each priced higher than what I just paid for my house in Caper Beach.
As I wait for Dean, I flip through a hookup app I’d installed in Boston. Even though some people in Brigs Ferry Bay seem to be on the app, I’m not interested in any of them. Sure, there are lots of guys my type, but none worth pursuing.
My mind drifts back to him.
Callan Kincaid.
Just a fucking kid but one I can’t seem to shake from my mind. He’s probably in bed with his boyfriend as we speak. Zak was possessive as hell over Callan. Doesn’t mean I’m turned off by that fact.
Callan isn’t exactly my usual type.
He’s slender, young, and looks as if his mouth gets him in trouble a lot.
And yet, my dick had no problems imagining that pretty mouth on my body. I came so hard in the shower before my shift—thinking about Callan. It’s bordering on obsessive and super fucking annoying.
On my next day off, I’m going to hit up the gay dance club and find a muscular guy with a nice bubble butt to suck me off. If I’m feeling extra gifty, I’ll fuck him until his eyes cross in pleasure.
Somehow, the fantasy transforms from a faceless nobody to someone with pouty lips that I can’t get out of my head. Tortured eyes. Creamy throat with a purple hickey. Nearly black hair that’s just long enough to grip onto.
And…I’m fucking hard.
Fantastic.
Luckily, all thoughts of Callan are chased away when Dean Bell exits the country club. He’s built like both Jax and Zak—tall, bulky, masculine. Dean’s the kind of guy who, even at his age, could still probably whip my ass in a game of flag football.
I’m not here to play games, though.
Well, not those, anyway.
The games I want to play are soaked in revenge and lit up by disgust.
He climbs into his Suburban and starts the engine. I leave my headlights off and follow him until he’s already out of the parking lot. The fucker forgets his blinker as he turns left onto Blue Shark Boulevard, rolling through the stop sign like it’s his God-given right. I peel out after him, flicking on my lights. Red and blue flicker off the windows of houses we pass, probably waking everyone in the vicinity. Just in case it didn’t, I hit my siren switch, pleased at the wailing sound. Over the top, but it gives me great pleasure nonetheless.