Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Now, here I am. If I can just deal with my crappy apartment for one more year, I’ll have enough money for a nicer place. If my car will just keep running for one more year, I’ll be able to get a new one—well, a less-used one. Et cetera. One more year.
I’ve walked farther than I meant to, away from campus, and somehow, even though I’ve always associated Tom Waits with the city, his voice like pavement and whiskey and heartbreak, listening to him makes me see the winding road in front of me in a new light. He’s the perfect soundtrack to this deserted place, the only light now from the moon, the trees encroaching.
I’m looking up at the moon, feeling a bit smug and rather impressed by myself for, like, being in nature, when I’m knocked over from behind.
I pitch forward, barely catching myself on my right hand, and jerk my earbuds out, whipping my head around to see where the attack is coming from. I should have fucking known better than to be walking alone at night when I couldn’t hear someone coming. I’ve known that since I was twelve years old. I can’t believe I thought it was safe here just because there’s nothing to fucking do. Serial killers, Daniel! Remember?
All this runs through my mind in the second it takes me to see that I am, in fact, not about to be serial killed. Because what knocked me over was a dog. A brown and white dog that is now licking my face and trying to put its paws on my shoulders.
“Marilyn! Marilyn, here, girl.”
I know that voice. That low, commanding voice. Not as gravelly as Tom Waits, but so much more welcome.
Rex.
Chapter 3
August
HE COMES crashing through the trees and, from my current position on the ground, he looks even bigger and more imposing than I remember.
He practically skids to a stop when he sees me.
The dog—Marilyn, apparently—barks once at Rex and then sits down next to me, one paw on my knee.
My head is swimming, and it’s not from being knocked over. He’s here. He’s really here. If I’m being honest, I’ve thought about him so much more than I even admitted to Ginger. In the six months since I got back from Michigan, I’ve imagined him a thousand times. What he might be doing, what he would say to me if he were there—even though I have no idea what he would say, since I don’t know him. I’ve told myself that a hundred times too. I even got Gaslight from the library and watched it on my computer, pretending he was sitting next to me on my crappy couch in Philadelphia. Then I took my computer to bed and watched it a second time, pretending he was there all over again.
I don’t do this. This isn’t what I do. I don’t moon over guys. I don’t pine. I don’t wonder what they’re doing. I never have. I mean, sure, I’ve had crushes. Usually, though, I just show up and if someone’s appealing, I go for it. It’s always been just sex, except for my monumentally stupid time with Richard.
But now I’m sitting here on the ground like an idiot because the man I’ve fantasized about, dreamed of, and jerked off to is finally standing in front of me and I do not have a clue what to say.
He leans toward me, quizzical.
“Daniel?” He sounds shocked.
“Hi,” I say.
We’re staring at each other. It’s really dark, so he mostly looks like shoulders and hair. He’s wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt with a tear in the neck that’s stretched tight over his muscular frame. He reaches down a hand, but rather than help me up, he pats the dog on the head.
“I guess she got you back, huh?” Rex says.
“What? Oh.” I laugh, looking at the dog. “Yeah, I guess she has.”
Now he reaches one huge hand down to me, his biceps stretching that poor T-shirt even more. His hand is warm, just like I remember it. He pulls me easily to my feet, so easily that he has to grab me by the shoulders to keep me from slamming into him. In this position, I can’t help but think of the last time he held me like this. Up against his kitchen wall, seconds before he kissed me.
He drops his hands and looks down.
“What are you doing here?” He doesn’t sound very pleased.
“Well, I got that job,” I say.
“Congratulations.” He’s looking at the dog, not me.
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” I look down too. “Oh shit.” My book is lying in the dirt. It must’ve fallen out of my pocket when I fell. I scoop it up and brush it off, but the cover is torn and there’s mud ground into the last twenty pages or so. “Shoot.”