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)
“Maybe because he didn’t think your sorry ass should lead,” I tease. Captainship aside, we’re good friends. Best friends, actually, now that Bails isn’t in the picture.
To say I’m on edge is putting it mildly. I’m off the goddamn cliff, spinning rapidly down a deep, dark abyss.
Grim offers me the soap back, and I remove one of my Versace slippers and hurl it at him in retaliation.
“I’ll take that as a no.” He shrugs, tossing the soap to Finn, fingering his chin thoughtfully. “There ya go, buddy. I have a spare.”
“Thanks, bro.” Finn starts scrubbing his body with the soap. Everybody gags and laughs.
“What? What’s happening?” He eyeballs Grim nervously.
“Nothing, man.” Grim pops his gum. “You just smeared my skid marks all over your body. We’re bonded for life now. Soapmates.”
“I see you woke up and chose violence today, Kwon.” Finn drops the soap and launches at Grim. They wrestle naked on the wet tiles while the showers spray their bodies. Too bad they aren’t hot chicks. Anyway, I root for casualties in this fight.
I see why getting a full ride to a good college is important to Grim.
Even though he’s loaded, his parents are pretty clear about their expectation he becomes a lawyer and takes over their family business. Unfortunately for him, he barely has the grades to graduate, let alone get accepted to a good university. So either he sneaks in through football or his name comes off his grandfather’s will.
“Break this up before you break his spine, Grim,” I order tonelessly.
Despite the fact that I hate football, I still care about being a good captain. And Finn won’t win this fight. Grim is a lineman the size of a tractor.
“Aw, you’re not my real dad, Levy.”
“That what your mom said? I’ll ask for a paternity test.”
Everyone laughs. So does Grim.
But because he knows me well, he can hear the edge in my voice.
Grim untangles himself from Finn and slips back under the showerhead next to me. Other than being a Bitter Betty about the captain thing—a title I snatched sophomore year—we get along pretty great. We’re off to the next topic on our agenda—which parties are worth crashing this weekend—when I overhear Austin telling Ballsy, “Confirmed, man. Saw her beat-up Toyota driving down Spanish River yesterday, her hot momma in the passenger seat.”
There’s only one person in town with a Toyota Corolla older than the Bible—which is also eggplant purple with a mismatched yellow door—and that’s Bailey Followhill.
Senior year, she insisted on saving up the money she made working summer camps and bought her own vehicle. She’s been financially independent since she was eighteen and probably the only person in our zip code to drive a non-luxury car. Uncle Vicious once threatened to sue Jaime for the eyesore that is his daughter’s vehicle parked in our cul-de-sac.
But since Bailey is supposed to be in New York, locked up in some rehab, that can’t be her he’s talking about. Maybe Mel took the car to the shop?
Ballsy says, “Dude, impossible. She got into Juilliard or some shit.”
Austin sucks his teeth. “Nah, bruh. She’s back in town. Saw her with my own eyes, getting Froyo from that place near Planet Fitness.” YoToGo. Bailey’s favorite. She always gets the Irish coffee and red velvet cake. Every hair on my body, head to balls, stands on end. Grim notices the shift, glancing at Austin and Ballsy with sudden interest.
“I always thought she was a seven outta ten.” Ballsy tugs at his dick roughly, lathering it with soap. “Too Goody Two-Shoes for my taste. But I’d tap that because she is…ya know, legacy. Daria Followhill’s sister.”
Bullshit. She’s a goddamn hundred out of ten, and everyone with a working pair of eyes knows it.
Bailey is a legend in All Saints High.
Her grades. Her pedigree. Her president of the debate team status that won us the nationals. She is kind, put-together, smart as a demon, and fuckable to a fault. I don’t know one guy who wouldn’t want a piece of her. Which coincidently makes me want to butcher half the people in my life into microscopic pieces.
“You sure she’s back in town?” Finn wonders. Same.
Austin nods. “OD, man.” He turns off the faucet and my mouth is bone fucking dry.
He plucks a towel and slaps it between his thighs, wiping back and forth. “My cousin’s girl goes to Juilliard. That fall from grace was from a fucking skyscraper, man. She was ushered out of her room on a gurney foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s all over social media.”
Ballsy laughs in disbelief. “Bailey Followhill? OD’ing? I have a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn. Who the fuck would buy that?”
“Dude, I’ll send you a TikTo—”
“That’s enough,” I roar.
Austin turns to me, a crooked, sadistic grin on his face. “What’s the problem, Cap? It’s not like I’m trashing a teammate. You can’t do shit.”