Total pages in book: 9
Estimated words: 7742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 39(@200wpm)___ 31(@250wpm)___ 26(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 7742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 39(@200wpm)___ 31(@250wpm)___ 26(@300wpm)
Genevieve isn’t a one-night stand kind of girl. She’s too serious and intense for that. And she feels things way too deeply.
Even more importantly, on the night of that kiss, she was only seventeen. Sure, she would have turned eighteen just two months later, but I was twenty, and on the verge of heading out on my first U.S. tour. Not only would it have technically been illegal to start something with Genevieve, it would have been pointless and cruel.
I wasn’t in the right headspace for a long-distance relationship, and she couldn’t come with us on the road. She was on her way to college in just a few months. Our lives were headed in radically different directions.
And that isn’t even considering the fact that Zack, her dad, would have cut my nuts off if he’d found out I was having sex with his underage daughter. If Genevieve and I had kissed again, we would have ended up in bed together, no doubt in my mind. That kiss was too hot to lead to anything else, so hot I still think about it all the damned time.
I even wrote a song about it, one I’ve held off on sharing with the band because they would all know exactly who “Bad Timing,” is about.
So would Genevieve, should the song make it into her ears, which would be nothing but bad. If I ever let that song out into the world, she’ll hate me even more than she does already.
“Panic?” she asks, a wrinkle between her brows that makes me think it isn’t the first time she’s said my name.
I grin. “Sorry. Zoned out. It’s been a long day. We rehearsed for hours this morning and then Waverly and Cecily wanted to have their friends over for a present swap. Shep and Bridget’s place has been full of screaming teenage girls since four o’clock.”
Genevieve slowly shifts into a seated position, tucking a few errant strands of red hair back into her sock cap with the big pink ball on top. With no makeup on and wearing an old blue peacoat over a baggy gray sweatshirt and leggings, she doesn’t look a day older than seventeen. It’s like the past five years never happened, like we’re back at that barbeque, sneaking beers from our parents’ cooler and laughing at stupid shit on my phone together on the couch.
“I’m sorry to bother Kirby and make you come all the way over here,” she says, her breath rushing out as her shoulders slump away from her ears. “I was locked out of my apartment and…didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
Frowning, I say, “Shit, that sucks. But I think the hardware store is open until midnight. Leo and I were joking yesterday about it, wondering what kind of last-minute shoppers need to hit a hardware store for presents.” I pull my phone out of my coat pocket. “I can call them, see if I can get a locksmith over to your place in an hour or so to let you in.”
She pulls her knees into her chest with a tight shake of her head. “No, I… I can’t. I didn’t lose my key. My landlord changed the locks.”
My chin jerks back. “What? Why?”
“I was fifty dollars short on the rent and it wasn’t the first time,” she says. “I guess he was just…sick of pestering me for the rest of it. He gave me until Monday to get him the fifty dollars I’m missing and fifty dollars for the late fee or he said he’d have my shit boxed up and left on the street.”
I curse colorfully but know better than to ask her why she hasn’t gone to her mom or dad for help. Genevieve and I have always been on the same page about having famous, billionaire parents. We’re proud of them for everything they’ve accomplished in their lives, but we don’t want to ride their coattails. We want to rise or fall on our own merit.
Still, I can’t help asking, “Do you need a loan? You know I’m happy to float you as much as you need.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” she says without hesitation. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay, but I could at least go talk with him, help him see how uncool it is to lock a person out of their home on Christmas Eve over fifty lousy bucks.”
Genevieve holds up a hand, fingers spread, “No, it’s fine. He has every right. I’m a fuck up. And who wants a fuck up living in their studio apartment for less than the full eight hundred per month? Even if it is shitty, smells like sauerkraut, and is infested with ladybugs.”
“Ladybugs?” I repeat.
She nods. “Yeah. And they’re not nearly as cute when they’re landing on your face in the middle of the night or clustering in the corners of the ceiling in snuggly little swarms, reminding you even insects have more friends than you do.” She winces. “Forget I said that. I have plenty of friends from college. They just…don’t live around here. They’re all successfully going to grad school or working a real job that doesn’t involve getting swindled out of your tips by your cheesy boss.”