Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
That’s when I see two missed calls and a text from my dad. My stomach twists the moment I read his words.
DAD
Did you go to the beach to party this weekend? I thought you and I had an understanding. Call me ASAP son.
Every last seedling of fun that was desperate to grow and seek sunlight just died inside my belly upon reading his text. I can literally hear my dad’s soft yet stern voice, that voice that can make me feel an inch tall, that converts me instantly to a five-year-old who just stole my brother’s toy out of his bedroom again and needs a time-out.
I can only assume he called the loft and my roommate helpfully informed him of my plans, likely just to get him off of her back so she can resume doinking her girlfriend.
There’s no way in hell I’m calling him back. Besides, even if I tried, we wouldn’t be able to hear a word either of us say. And I’m not entirely sure whether that’s because of the volume of the music, or rather that every conversation with my dad falls on two very closed ears and a mind screwed so tightly shut, not even the bliss of enlightenment itself could hope to penetrate it.
With uncertain fingers, I tap out a reply, telling him I’m in Dreamwood for an art project, not for pleasure.
Twelve seconds later, his response:
DAD
You want me to believe that? Call me.
I feel that all-too-familiar itch of defiance in my heart, an itch I keep trying to suppress. I don’t want to yell at my dad and put myself in a mood. I don’t want a repeat of last summer when I almost dropped out of school. The whole thing with my brother was still fresh. We were all feeling it—my dad, my mom, even our Dalmatian Francis who stopped drinking from her water bowl for a week. No one was being listened to. Everything was all fire and emotion.
And now, here I am, trying to prove something to my professor, trying to prove something to my dad, trying to prove something to myself, and none of us are convinced.
Angel, my brother, I really wish you were here. I could use a loving smack over the head right about now.
The door flies open. I take a step toward the bathroom, ready for a moment’s reprieve from the loud music and noise of this hallway …
Only to be intercepted by some bodybuilder in a fluffy white robe who slips into the bathroom before me.
“Uh, excuse me …?” I blurt out at his back.
He stops and turns, flashing his bright blue eyes at me, set in an irritatingly gorgeous face of smooth, creamy skin, with pillowy lips, a mannequin’s jawline, and cheekbones that can kill on sight.
“What?” that gorgeous face snaps irritably.
Is this guy serious? “I was next. Literally standing here in front of the door, waiting.”
“I’ll be two seconds.” He turns away, apparently about to shut the door on my face.
Maybe I’m more angry about my dad and my professor than I care to admit. But I’m tired of whatever it is I’m feeling, this overwhelming sense of helplessness, and I need to take control of something.
That’s why I reach out and grab the dude’s robe by its back, stopping him.
He experiences two and a half seconds of confusion and struggle before he turns around—but the act of turning only succeeds in helping the robe somehow slide straight off of his arms, aided by my having a strong hold of it.
I don’t know what magical, physics-defying effort is to blame for what happens next, but when I tug, expecting to simply yank him from the doorway of the bathroom, I instead succeed in pulling the robe straight off of him.
And revealing his entire body.
His entire naked body.
From his broad, muscular pecs. To his chiseled abs. To the V-shaped ridges that point straight to his dick, which hangs like a goddamned chain whip of paradise between two toned mountains for thighs.
He seems just as stunned as I do, staring at the robe.
Which now hangs in my fist.
As if he still hasn’t realized he’s completely naked.
On display for the whole damned world.
It seems to hit him at once. He slaps one hand over his dick (it still doesn’t cover it) then slips halfway into the bathroom to preserve whatever bit of his dignity remains. From behind the door, he makes one laughable attempt to snatch the robe out of my hand, but I’m quicker, stepping out of reach of his big, flailing arm.
“Hey!” He pokes his head out. “Give back my robe!”
“It’s my turn to use the bathroom. You cut in line.”
“What are we? Kids in elementary school?”
“I was next.”
“So that gives you the right to … to strip me naked??”
“What’s the big deal? Everyone here’s almost naked.”