Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Then again, the way he’d been with me the last few weeks since I’d moved in, how he’d offered me a place to stay in the first place… it refuted the beliefs I’d had about him. He’d made sure I had somewhere to go. He’d done his best to make it comfortable for me here. He’d asked about my first skin, about my family…
He’d cooked for me.
I swallowed, the apology forming on my tongue when I looked at him and found this numb sort of expression on his face.
“No, you weren’t,” he said before I could get it out. “And I don’t blame you for thinking that about me. You’re far from the only one.”
“You seem like that upsets you.”
A breath of a laugh left his chest as he looked at me. “Wouldn’t it upset you?”
“Yes, but my sole purpose in life isn’t to make people think I’m some cocky playboy with thick skin.”
“I do have thick skin,” he said, almost defensively. “And yeah, I have confidence in who I am, in what I can do. But…”
He scrubbed his jaw.
“But what?” I asked.
He just shook his head. “Nothing.”
I pivoted to face him on the couch, resting my elbows on my knees as I leaned closer. “But you don’t want to play this role for life?”
Leo stilled, and then he frowned, pinning me with his accusatory gaze. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I see right through you.”
“Oh, yeah? And what is it that you see?”
If he’d have asked me this question a month ago, I would have smiled in victory as I spat out every nasty thought I’d had about him for the past seven years.
But tonight, I saw a glimpse of the boy he used to be, the one who confessed his fears to me in a hushed voice at two in the morning so he wouldn’t wake his parents. I saw the same eyes I watched from across the cafeteria, the ones that glittered with every joke he said but then glossed over when no one was looking at him anymore, when he didn’t have everyone’s attention — which was rare.
“I see a man who wants to be taken seriously, but doesn’t know how to do that without feeling vulnerable or weak.”
Leo blinked, his nostrils flaring as his eyes searched mine. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”
“See? I can surprise people, too.”
“It’s almost like you might not detest me anymore.”
I scoffed, leaning back. “You wish.”
“Come on, admit it,” Leo said with a playful smirk. “You kind of like me.”
“About as much as I like getting pricked with a needle.”
His brow shot up, and then his eyes were washing over every inch of my skin. “Considering how much ink you have, I’d say you like getting pricked with needles quite a bit.”
I laughed — genuinely laughed, because I had not thought of that before I threw my little quip at him. I shoved him away, tucking my hair behind one ear. “Shut up.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. You can still pretend to hate me.”
I rolled my eyes, but then I found his gaze again.
And the way he stared at me, the way the silence of the house fell down around us, the way he wore that little smirk…
It was like pouring water over hot rocks in a sauna, the heat too much to bear.
I flushed, looking down at my hands in my lap. I was about to tell him I should go upstairs and get ready for work when he said, “It’s cool that you game.”
Relief washed over me at the change in subject.
“I’ve only known one other girl who did,” he added.
Something about his expression changed then, his eyes almost… sad.
My heart picked up its pace in my chest. “A lot of girls game.”
“I’m sure they do,” he said. “I’ve just avoided them since high school.”
Another loud thump of my heart echoed in my chest. “Why?”
Leo opened his mouth, shut it again, and then the muscles of his jaw were working under the skin as that silence fell over us once more.
“It’s a long story that I don’t want to get into,” he finally said softly.
All of his little comments over the last few weeks started clicking into place, like puzzle pieces that had been lost under a couch cushion.
Was he talking about me?
I wanted to shake my head as soon as I thought it, because obviously it wasn’t me. He was disgusted when he met me in person. He made fun of me. He let his friends make fun of me for the rest of our fucking high school tenure. It was clear that he didn’t recognize me now — thanks to braces, my skin being clearer, and my baby fat turning into feminine curves I loved to show off.
He didn’t know I was that girl he hurt all those years ago, but he damn sure knew that girl was Octostigma.