Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Tonight, however, the entire vibe just feels off. I’m no stranger to drugs, alcohol, and strangers getting intimate in dark corners of the room.
The difference is I’m sober with no desire to change that. I don’t want to take shots with the douchey frat boys in the den. I don’t want to slip off to the bathroom to snort lines with Sasha because her boyfriend is on her ass about her drug use while he does keg stands and pops various pills. I don’t even want to be here, but here is better than home.
“Don’t feel bad!” Sasha yells over the din surrounding us. “Just bring some next time.”
She must’ve found someone to accompany her to the bathroom because she’s grinning up at me with pinpoint pupils.
“I no longer do drugs,” I remind her, not for the first time tonight, and it only makes her smile wider.
“Me either.” She makes some sort of scout sign I’m certain is wrong and holds it to her forehead. “Sober as a judge.”
I nod, giving her a fake smile. Stepping around her, I walk toward the front door without saying goodbye. She wouldn’t remember it if I did. This was a very bad idea, and how I managed to sneak away from my house without Flynn catching me, I don’t know.
“You ready to go home now?”
I startle, my hands coming up to my chest when he speaks.
Even in the moonlight, he looks like a bad-boy mafia boss. He’s dressed too nice for this part regardless of the social status of the people inside.
“Do you ever wear jeans?”
His head tilts to the side as he watches me walk down the steps toward him.
“Jeans? Not often. Why?”
“No reason. Just wondering if you’re always so serious all the time.”
“I take my work seriously.”
I know he does, but I still can’t get the sound of his laugh from last night out of my head. I want to hear more of it. I want to know how he looks when he’s completely vegged out and relaxed.
“How did you find me?”
A small smile plays on his lips as he ignores my question, and I feel like I’ve won some sort of exclusive contest. Have I ever seen a smile from him? Not that I can recall. My night just got a million times better.
“I don’t want to go home.”
He doesn’t frown, but he steps back when I try to inch closer to him. I struggle, swallowing down the lump of disappointment in my throat.
“No one said you have to go home, but I’d prefer it if you weren’t at a party filled with drugs and alcohol. Are you struggling?”
I give him credit for not assuming I went in there and drank or used drugs. “Not really, but I don’t want to stay. This really isn’t my scene anymore.”
“Let’s find something else to do then.” He sweeps his arm in the direction of the street where I find my car idling.
He opens my door, just like he always has, and I’m thankful he assumes I’m going to sit in front with him rather than the back. I try not to read too much into it because thinking he wants me up front and closer to him would make my mind spin with all sorts of ideas I don’t think entertaining would be healthy. I pull my seatbelt and latch it as he settles into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say a word as he pulls away from the curb and begins driving.
Classic rock plays through the speakers quietly as he makes his way out of the ritzy neighborhood, and he doesn’t initiate conversation either. Somehow, the near silence isn’t uncomfortable, and I’m left wondering if trusting him is the right feeling to have. I trust him with my safety of course, but at the end of the day, he works for my parents. They have their best interests at heart, not mine.
“I just couldn’t stay in the house any longer,” I confess, and he nods as if he understands I’m talking about my parents and not the party we just left. “Do you get along with your parents?”
“I do.” Another smile plays on his perfect lips, and as much as I like seeing it, the action also makes me jealous.
I’ve never been happy with the mention of my parents, not even when it was just Mom and me before Charles popped into our lives. The people I associate with don’t really interact much with their parents either, all of them being raised by nannies as well.
“Brothers or sisters?”
“One of each,” he discloses, the gentle smile growing wider.
“Do you boss them around as much as you boss me around?”
“Hardly.” A laugh bubbles out of his throat. “I’m the youngest, so I’m usually the one getting bossed.”
“So you’re projecting that irritation on me?” The question is asked with humor, but his smile fades away.