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)
He paces back and forth, swiping his hand over his mouth in frustration. He stops. “Last chance, Bail. Where are the drugs?”
“Screw you. You just cut my orgasm short.” I reach between my thighs to play with myself.
But the moment is gone and so is the promise for climax. The wetness inside me feels cold and empty.
I have a moment of clarity where I see myself from the outside. Through his eyes. This wretched, long-limbed creature trying to reignite something that is long dead.
As if confirming my suspicion, Lev drops to his knees beside me.
“Look at yourself.” He ties my bikini back together hastily. “Fuck, Dove. What would it take to make you get some help?”
Smiling, I try to gulp down the ball of tears forming in my throat. “Just because I’m no longer perfect, doesn’t mean I’m not perfectly me. Anyone ever told you you’re a fair-weather friend?”
And then, something awful happens.
He stops helping me. Stands up. Flashes me his megawatt, crooked, ’90s-heartthrob smirk. The one I see him giving his rivals on the field before he wipes them out and finishes their season. Lev doesn’t have bedroom eyes.
He has bend-you-against-the-kitchen-counter-while-your-parents-are-literally-in-the-next-room-and-fuck-your-brains-out eyes.
And right now, this drowsy, sexy, long-lashed stare is looking at me like it is trying to measure me up.
Which part of me he wants to break first. The answer is clear, by the way—the heart.
“Fine. You wanna act like a loser, Bailey? I’ll treat you like a loser. Have fun with your drugs.”
He advances to the door, and I chase him, grabbing at the edge of his shirt. “You’re just gonna walk away from the conversation?”
“What more is there to say?”
“Break up with your girlfriend. For me.”
I always thought that if I were to channel an Ariana Grande song, it’d be “Dangerous Woman.” This is definitely not my month.
Lev turns to glare at me. I never thought I’d see the day when he looked at me like I’m a bug he wants to crush under his shoe.
“For you?” He arches an eyebrow, giving me a slow, patronizing once-over. “Nah. Let me know when my best friend is back.”
CHAPTER 17
Lev
Miserable Fact #2,200: After being decapitated, the average person remains conscious for an additional 15–20 seconds.
I leave the Followhill residence without saying goodbye, their daughter’s juices still all over my hand.
I storm across the street to my house, throwing the door open. Dad and Dixie are sitting in the living room watching Parks and Rec like the most wholesome couple on planet earth.
They seriously need to pork already.
“Hey, Lev.” Dixie twists her head, smiling at me from the couch. “I made some steamed eggrolls if you—”
“Yeah. Thanks. Later.” I shoot up the stairs to my bathroom like I just downed a bottle of laxatives.
“Manners!” Dad barks from the couch. Like he gives two shits about those when Dixie isn’t around.
In my bathroom, I begin dumping my football gear on the floor. I get to my jockstrap.
I pull it off, then grimace as I peer inside. Yup. I came in my pants like a goddamn rookie.
My jockstrap are superglued to my junk by spunk.
With a hiss, I dump the jockstrap into the trash and squeeze the edges of the granite counter, staring at myself in the mirror.
I felt like a shithead, fingering Dove. Not because it didn’t feel good. It felt fantastic.
But because she was under the influence and I genuinely thought she’d tell me where the drugs were if I brought her to the brink of coming and denied her.
My dick is hard again—fuck this shit and fuck being an eighteen-year-old.
I drop my gaze to the hand that’s still coated in Bailey’s juices.
It’s all sticky and dry now, but I can still smell her. Taste her, if I ran my tongue over my palm. But I can’t. I can’t jerk off using her juices.
It would be wrong. The guilt would kill me.
Leaning forward, I close my eyes and tap-tap-tap my forehead against the mirror, willing myself not to headbutt it and send it crashing.
I love Bailey Followhill to death.
But the girl she becomes when she’s high…
I hate that chick. With a passion.
“So, anyway, thanks a lot for blue-balling my ass, Mom.” I sit next to Mom’s grave, snapping twigs distractedly. “Bailey said she didn’t wanna start something together because you made her promise she’d always be there for me. She took it to mean she had to friend-zone my ass into oblivion. Now she’s in trouble and I’m not sure how to help her.”
How do you help someone who doesn’t want to be helped?
I bet Mom would have wise words on that.
“Okay, fair,” I groan. “It’s not your fault that things are messed up. But I’m allowed to vent, all right?”
Shaking my head, I shove my hand into a bucket of warm water and dish soap, pull out a sponge, and start washing her grave.