Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Because Caitlin wants his nut sack.
And her bartender friend, Jada, wants mine.
Last time we went, I got so wasted from the free shots the girls were getting us that I nearly fucked up everything with Amy. Jada had her shirt off, was in my lap, and her tongue down my throat before I finally snapped out of it and pushed her away.
Long-distance relationships are fucking hard.
I always see Amy when I make the almost five-hour trip north from Fayetteville to Columbia. We spend 90 percent of our time together fucking and making up for lost moments. But in between those times a few weekends a semester, I get lonely. Our Facetime chats usually end with her making me feel guilty in some way. Sometimes she can be such a nag.
“Hale!” Brass bellows. “I said now!”
His tone is sharp and not at all like the one he uses to razz on the baseball field. It unnerves me.
“Coming, Coach,” I holler back and zip my bag closed. I shoulder it and amble through the locker room to his office where he paces. His back is to me and he runs both hands through his thinning hair.
Fuck.
Am I in trouble?
“Sit, son,” he says, his voice cracking slightly.
Son?
Something tells me this isn’t about baseball. My job then? I’ve been working at Mrs. Brass’s accounting firm on the days I don’t train. Since I’m getting my degree in Finance, I get to mentor under her while making a little bit of money in the process. I’m saving up to get Amy an engagement ring.
“I was sick last Friday,” I lie. “If I messed up on someone’s return, it’s because I was sick.” Really, I was nursing that hangover and the mountain of regret I had from making out with a girl who wasn’t my girlfriend.
He turns and regards me with sadness gleaming in his eyes. I slump into the chair, hating his expression.
“Coach…”
“Have you talked to your sister, Hudson?”
Hudson?
Coach always calls me Hale.
Fuck, this isn’t good.
I furl my brows in confusion. “Rylie? No. Why?”
“Son…” He pauses and pain flashes in his eyes. Pity even. “She’s been trying to get ahold of you. Then she called me.”
What did she say to him?
Irritation bubbles up inside of me. My sister sometimes is every bit as bad as Amy. Always wanting to know when I’m coming back home. Griping about Mom and school and whatever else seventeen-year-olds bitch about. She’s an attention seeker and when my parents aren’t showering her with it, she demands it from me. It’s times like these, I’m glad I left Missouri. “No, what does she want?” I groan in frustration.
He sits on the edge of his desk and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s your parents.”
“What about them?” Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. His nose turns slightly red and his nostrils flare. “They were…” Tears form in his eyes as he swallows down his emotion. “I’m sorry, son, but there’s no easy way to tell you this. They were killed in a head-on collision this afternoon.”
I blink at him in confusion. “What?”
“I’m sorry, Hudson.”
“Rylie is just making up bullshit again,” I snap as I rise from the chair.
He shakes his head as he rises and walks over to me. His palm clasps over my shoulder and he squeezes it. “You need…you need to call your sister.” Then, he grimaces, blinking away tears. “Go home. Take as long as you need. The team and myself are here for you.”
This isn’t real.
This isn’t fucking real.
I yank my phone from my pocket, jerk out of his hold, and ignore all the missing calls and texts from every goddamned person I know. Instead, I call Mom.
“Hey, I’m not available to take your call at the moment. If you’re booking for February’s Valentine’s cut and color special, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
It beeps and I growl, “Tell Rylie to fucking stop. Call me back.”
“Hudson—” Coach starts, but I wave him off as I call Dad.
His deep voice that sounds much like mine rumbles through the line. “Leave a message.”
“Dad, Rylie is pulling some shit. Call me.”
I hang up and my phone rings in my grip.
Rylie.
Infuriated, I swipe it to answer. “Whatever bullshit you’re—”
A loud, ugly sob rings in my ear. Heartbroken. Terrified. Soul-shattering. Tears instantly burn at my eyes as I shake my head.
“N-No,” I choke out.
“D-Dad is…” Rylie trails off as she gags through her tears. My heart races as my own tears slide down my cheeks. “He and M-Mom…t-they’re g-gone.”
“No, Rylie,” I whisper. “No.”
She just cries. “I d-don’t know w-what to do.”
I swipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Call Aunt Becky and Uncle Randy. I’m on my way.”
“Okay,” she croaks out.
I hang up and stare numbly at my coach. “They’re dead.”