Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
I pull my brother in, his breaths short and fast, more scared than anything, and I look up at Hawke, watching the realization start to hit.
Matty’s waiting for Hawke to blow up. His experience with men is that they don’t want to be reminded you’re there.
“It’s okay,” I tell him gently.
But Hawke approaches, squatting to his eye level. “Hey,” he barks.
Matty jumps, and I tense.
Hawke scowls. “You know what I do to cute kids like you?”
Matty is still.
“I…eat them!” he howls.
And he grabs my brother in both arms, hurling him up and gobbling his tummy through his shirt like a lion.
Matty breaks into squeals, kicking his legs.
But all smiles.
Tears fill my eyes, but I turn away, busying myself cleaning up the sauce.
“That was the main course and the vegetables,” Hawke announces. “Now for dessert!”
I look over my shoulder, watching him pretend to devour the kid as Matty thrashes in his arms and laughs.
“All right,” Hawke sighs. “I’ll save some for later, I guess. Come help me choose more sauce. I have extra.” He carries Matty over to the cupboard and opens it. “Which one? Tomato and basil or marinara?”
“Marinara!” Matty shouts, but I’m not sure he knows the difference. Just enjoys being asked to choose for everyone.
I clean up the rest of the mess, kind of sorry Hawke’s homemade sauce was wasted. It actually tasted really good the other night when the two of us made pizza.
Hawke sets Matty down, shaking the jar and then opening it. “Here.” He hands it to Bianca. “You guys put it on.”
She gets busy pouring some on the dough, letting Matty spread it, and Hawke moves to my side.
Lowering his voice, he asks, “Did he hit him or something?”
Our stepfather. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want Matty and Bianca to have a good day.
But Bianca speaks up. “No,” she tells Hawke. “He only hit Aro.”
I close my eyes for a moment. Dammit. Matty doesn’t need to hear that.
I feel Hawke’s eyes on me, and I glance up at him. “It’s fine.” I unwrap the wedge of cheese, ready to grate it. “It didn’t happen that often.”
He watches me, but I’m not letting anyone, including my stepdad, into the kitchen with us today. For now, it’s just us four, and I get to pretend we’re normal kids, on a carefree summer day, making pizza for breakfast.
We sit in the bakery, the shades shielding us from the view of the people on the street, as Matty plays waiter and serves us drinks and food.
Other than that, he doesn’t leave Hawke. Riding on his shoulders. On his back. In his arms.
He refuses to sleep until he just can’t keep his eyes open anymore, and when it’s time to go home, he tells me I can’t come. He wants Hawke to himself. And I let him take them alone because I’ll cry if I have to watch them go back in that house without me.
I know my sister has it under control, but I don’t want her to have to. She’s not his mother, any more than I am.
But for a minute, it felt like we were a family. The four of us.
I liked pretending. They’re ours. We protect them.
And he’s mine.
“Damn him,” I whisper, but I still smile. Giving me glimpses of something better, and I’ll be chasing that useless hope for the rest of my life now.
Slipping back into the hideout, I slide into some shoes and pull on my hat and jacket.
I dial on my phone, still remembering her number from when she tried to evade payment. Dylan Trent answers almost immediately. “Hello?”
“It’s Aro Marquez,” I tell her. “I need a favor. Do it, and we’re square.”
“Did you take ibuprofen?” she asks, fidgeting in the seat next to me.
“Yes.”
If there’s anything Hawke has a lot of in that place, it’s first aid supplies.
And food. I know where I’m going when the zombie apocalypse hits.
“Juliet says it hurts,” she tells me, “but it goes fast.”
I look over at her as we sit in the Zen lounge of the day spa, complete with a giant Buddha and a bowl of water chimes. “You’ve never done this?” I ask her.
I thought all rich girls were perfectly groomed.
But before she can answer, a woman calls us. “Ladies?”
We rise and follow the technician, who’s dressed in dark blue scrubs into a room, bamboo flutes drifting out of speakers from somewhere I don’t see. Two massage tables sit parallel, separated with a privacy screen.
“This’ll be my first time too,” Dylan finally answers.
I take off my jacket, another woman turning down the sheet on each bed.
“Remove everything,” the short-haired blonde one tells us. “Wrap yourself in the robe and then lie on top of the sheet.”
Both of them duck out, closing the door, and I kick off my shoes. “You don’t have to do it with me,” I tell her, seeing her shadow on the other side.