Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
By the time Evan and I turned six, their relationship turned combative. Dad started drinking more. Mom looked for attention and validation from other men. They separated, and Evan and I became afterthoughts to booze and sex.
“No,” Mac orders.
I blink again. “No what?”
“You have that look on your face. You’re brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Yes, you are. Your face is totally saying, I’m lost in my broody thoughts because I’m SUCH a tortured bad boy.” She gives me a stern look. “Snap out of it, Hartley. We were discussing some pretty insightful stuff.”
“We were talking about cotton candy.” My tone is dry.
“So? That can be insightful.” She raises one eyebrow, smug. “Did you know scientists are trying to use cotton candy to create artificial blood vessels?”
“That sounds like pure and total horseshit,” I say cheerfully.
“It’s not. I read about it once,” she insists. “Cotton candy fibers are, like, super small. They’re the same size as our blood vessels. I don’t remember the exact process, but the basic premise is—cotton candy equals medical breakthrough.”
“Junk science.”
“I swear.”
“Cite your sources.”
“Some magazine.”
“Ohhhh, of course! Some magazine—the most reputable of publications.”
She glares at me. “Why can’t you just accept I’m right?”
“Why can’t you accept you might be wrong?”
“I’m never wrong.”
I start laughing, which causes her to glower harder at me. “I’m convinced you argue just for the sake of arguing,” I inform her.
“I do not.”
I laugh harder. “See! You’re so damn stubborn.”
“Lies!”
A tall blonde holding hands with a small boy frowns as she passes by. Mac’s exclamation has brought a flicker of concern to the woman’s eyes.
“It’s okay,” Mac assures her. “We’re best friends.”
“We’re bitter rivals,” I correct. “She’s always yelling at me, ma’am. Please, help me out of this toxic relationship.”
The woman gives us one of those you’re incorrigible looks anyone over forty sports when they’re dealing with immature children. Joke’s on her. We’re both in our twenties.
We continue down the boardwalk, stopping to watch some sucker boyfriend hurl darts at a wall of balloons to try to win a massive stuffed animal for his girl. Forty bucks later, he still hasn’t secured the prized panda, and the girlfriend is now spending more time checking me out than cheering him on.
“Can you believe that chick?” Mac says when we walk off. “I swear she was picturing you naked in her mind while her poor boyfriend was bleeding money for her.”
“Jealous?” I flash a grin.
“Nope. Just impressed. You’re hot stuff, Hartley. I don’t think we’ve passed a single girl tonight who hasn’t stopped to drool over you.”
“What can I say? Women like me.” I’m not trying to be arrogant. It’s just a fact. My twin and I are good-looking, and good-looking guys are popular with the ladies. Anyone who says otherwise is damn naïve. When it comes to our basic animal instincts, who we’re sexually drawn to, appearance matters.
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” Mac asks.
“Don’t want one.”
“Ah, I get it. Commitmentphobe.”
“Nah.” I shrug. “I’m just not in the market for one right now. My priorities are elsewhere.”
“Interesting.”
Our eyes lock for a fleeting, heated moment. I’m seconds away from reexamining the aforementioned priorities when Mac visibly swallows and changes the subject.
“Alright, time for another ride,” she announces. “We’ve been dilly-dallying long enough.”
“Please go easy on me,” I beg.
She simply snorts in response and dashes off in search of our next death-defying adventure.
I stare after her in amusement. And a touch of bewilderment. This girl is something else. Not at all like the other bored clones at Garnet. She doesn’t care how she looks—hair wild, makeup sweating off. She’s spontaneous and free, which makes it that much more confounding why she stays with that jackass Kincaid. What the hell does that guy have that makes him so damn great?
“Explain something to me,” I say, as we approach some enormous bungee thing that slingshots a small, two-person basket of screaming victims nearly two hundred feet in the air.
“If this is you trying to stall, it won’t work.” She marches right up to the ride attendant and hands him our tickets.
“Your boyfriend,” I start, stepping around her to get into the basket first.
The attendant straps me in and starts his spiel that amounts to: Keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle, and if this kills you, we’re not liable.
For the first time tonight, Mac looks nervous as she slides in beside me. “What about him?”
I choose my words carefully. “I mean, I hear things. None of them good. And for a girl who insists she doesn’t want to be her mommy and daddy’s little princess protégé, I’m wondering why you would do the expected thing and settle for another Garnet clone.”
The thick bundle of cords, which will in a moment launch us into the night sky, rises up the ride’s arms that form an obtuse angle above us.
“That’s not really any of your business.” Her expression turns flat, her tone adversarial. I’m touching a nerve.