Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
She purses her lips. “Mom and Dad said I can only leave the house chaperoned by them or you.”
I tsk. “Well, whaddaya know. What goes around really does come around.”
She was the one treating me like a Tamagotchi growing up.
“No one’s coming in this scenario between us two. I’m not that high.” She rips the pink Nirvana hoodie from her body, spheres it in her fist, and throws it at me.
I catch and drape it over my face, head tilted up, sniffing it like a pervert. “Joke’s on you. This goes into my spank bank.”
I tuck the hoodie into my back pocket, because she is that small, and I am that big.
Bailey growls exasperatedly in her pink sports bra, her abs tightening with the movement. She really has changed. Old Bailey doesn’t growl, huff, scoff, or any of those things. She smiles politely, fusses, and beams.
I rake my eyes over her upper body until my gaze lands on the tape on her arm, the purple marks of the IV. Then I start noticing the wear and tear on her flesh. Her body is marked—painted purple and black and blue.
I’ve seen plenty of sports injuries in my lifetime. This is different. Worse. Way worse.
The knots in my stomach twist harder and tighter, grow bigger like a rubber band ball, and it feels like they’re about to snap through my skin. Even if she doesn’t have a drug habit, she’s a great candidate for one because living inside her body must be painful. As she slips a blue satin dress on, I say, “Maybe it’s a good thing Mel and Jaime are keeping an eye on you. You haven’t been taking care of yourself.”
Bailey rolls her eyes. Bailey never rolls her eyes. “And you know this because…?”
“I have eyes. Look at you. You’re battered.”
“No, you’re delusional,” she snaps.
Whoa. Okay. I have no fucking idea who this girl is or what she did to my best friend.
“What happened to you?” I frown. Who the hell am I talking to anyway? “You were this insanely successful girl. The pride of Todos Santos.”
“And you think just because I work super hard and it shows that I’m no longer that person?” she spits out. “Well, newsflash—succeeding at an elite school comes with a price. Welcome to life outside our childhood bubble, Cole.”
She spreads her arms theatrically. “You have to bleed to succeed. When you do sports competitively, injuries happen. Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about it. I’ve never seen a quarterback who barely breaks a sweat. What’s the worst you’ve ever endured, a scraped knee?”
Shut the front door. This is a top-tier meltdown.
Like, amateurly edited, badly written cable reality TV shit. I’m wondering if she’s experiencing some type of withdrawal.
Whoever this girl is, she soldiers ahead, grinning at me tauntingly. “Face it, Lev. Even if I did overtrain, you’re the last person to lecture me about it. You’re cruising through life too scared to tell Daddy Dearest you hate football and want to go to flight school. You’re a coward. You just hide it well. When are you gonna tell him, by the way?”
I’m thinking never is a good timeframe.
When I don’t answer, she makes a face. “You are gonna tell him, right?”
My jaw clenches. “We’re not talking about me now.”
She tips her head back and laughs humorlessly. “Oh. Wow.”
Football is a sore subject for me. I’m good at it, but I hate it. It’s like being a porn star with a ten-inch dick who aspires to be a celibate priest. Just because I can doesn’t mean I should.
Thing is, I’m second-generation football royalty at All Saints High.
My dad played. My big brother, Knight, played. Last year, my letterman jacket went for seven thousand bucks in an auction. It’s hard to throw this kinda love away. Truth is, I’m addicted to the glory.
Fucking sue me.
“Sorry, I’m on edge.” Bailey rubs her forehead tiredly.
You’re on something, all right.
“You do seem…scattered,” I say gently. Because telling her she is one hundred percent a stranger probably isn’t going to get me far. “You need anything?”
She shakes her head. “Just need some fresh air. Wanna grab lunch before we head out?”
“Shrimp and zucchini fries with a side of your fucking bullshit?” I arch an eyebrow. “It’s a pass from me.”
“I’ll behave.” She gives me a small, desperate smile. “Please? I just need…”
“An urgent trip to rehab?”
She gives me an exhausted smile, and I think I see the real Bailey through the cracks. “A break.”
I groan, running a hand through my buzzed hair. “Fuck. Fine.”
We both shuffle downstairs and eat Melody’s food. It’s good, but Bailey makes the best food in the world, hands down.
Mainly because in the months before Mom died, she visited her daily and scribbled down all of her recipes so I would never go without my favorite dishes.