Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Man, I hope he isn’t annoyed because of me.
Finn
I don’t know anything more about Professor Winslow than the internet and the first five minutes of class have told me, but I already hate him.
The way the girls in my class nearly faint at the sight of him in his expensive suit. The carefree smile. The teasing jokes tossed toward my classmates.
He’s the picture of a man whose asshole has had nothing but rainbows and sunshine shooting out of it since his mom was changing his diapers.
He grabs a black marker and starts to write something across the giant whiteboard at the front of the lecture hall, and my heart pounds hard in my chest. My half brother. Here in the flesh.
I still cannot fucking believe my dad has five other kids, and I’ve known for years at this point.
My fists clench with the effort to stay in my seat—to not jump up and shove the news of our relation right down his smug throat in front of the entire class. But I don’t think it’ll do me any good to blow my load this soon. I need to strategize to make sure it hurts as much as possible—to make sure he feels the way I’ve always felt.
My phone vibrates again on top of my desk, and Scottie the Cheerleader glances my direction furtively. She’s a bundle of nervous energy, so I’m not surprised she looks this way with pretty much every move I make.
I check the screen, figuring it’s one of my siblings—the most common texters in my inbox—but instead, it’s my roommate Ace…again.
Ace: Dude. Why didn’t you tell me the two blocks between our dorm and Newton are fucking SWARMED? I’ve lived in New York my whole life, and I feel like I’ve never seen this many people out at one time. Don’t these assholes have anything better to do???
I don’t know what it is about Ace Kelly, but for the past six days, he’s made it impossible for me not to be his friend. He’s just one of those people who demands your friendship and does it in such a way that you find yourself going along with that plan willingly.
He’s wild, boisterous, is always making jokes, and gets a thrill out of pranking people. How do I know this? Because I’ve already witnessed three of his infamous pranks, and we’ve been roommates for less than a week.
The two clueless dudes in the dorm room across the hall from ours came out of their place this morning dressed in their finest clothes—looking nervous as hell—because they’re convinced the dean wants to have a personal meeting with them.
There’s no meeting. Only Ace and his pranks.
Regardless, I don’t bother telling him it’s not my job to babysit him or wake him up for class. Given his personality, I feel like he’s going to have to learn to swim or sink the hard way.
Ace: I think I’m, like, five minutes away. Has he started class?
Me: He’s writing on the whiteboard as we speak.
Ace: SHIT.
Phone returned to my desk, I move my eyes back to my target. My half brother who’s had life by the ass and didn’t have to experience our father’s violent, drunken ways.
Lucky asshole.
My older brother Reece would be so pissed at me for coming to Dickson for the reason I did, but Reece can suck a fucking egg. He chose to go to college in California—thousands of miles away from home—and he’s not the one who discovered our dear old dad has a whole other family.
I clench my fist and open it again but am shocked that the motion finishes with Scottie the Cheerleader’s hand on mine. I’m startled by her touch, but to be honest, she looks startled too. Her hand is remarkably warm and soft.
I look down at where her fingers are gently placed over mine and then back up at her again.
“Here,” she whispers and slides a folded-up piece of notebook paper into my hand.
Confused, I unfold it until I can see what’s inside—a note in some of the prettiest fucking handwriting I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s all swirls and clean lines and nothing at all like my chicken scratch.
I’m sorry about before. Outside. When I was a super klutz. You must think I’m a total bitch for running off on you without a thank-you. I swear, I’m not! I really wasn’t trying to be rude. Thank you for trying to help me.
PS: I’m Scottie Bardeaux. What’s your name?
Without even thinking twice, I pick up my pen and scribble a response.
Finn Hayes. And I don’t think that. But I do think your knee is still bleeding.
I pass the note back to her and then reach into my backpack to snag a tissue. She’s still reading my response when I tap the excess blood off her knee. She jumps a little when the soft cloth hits her skin, but other than that, she just sits there, her warm hazel eyes fixated on my face as I dry her scrape.