Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“What the hell was that?!” Kara explodes the second he disappears. Mercifully, the bell rings, sparing me from having to attempt an explanation. I give my friend an apologetic wave and hurry down the hall to my next class.
Fortunately, I always sit in the front, so the only person I have to look at is the teacher. Unfortunately, Donnie is in this class, too. Am I imagining it, or do I feel the heat of his gaze on the back of my head?
Thankfully, I’m a good enough student that I’m able to more or less lose myself in the lesson. However, about halfway through the period, I notice that I’ve stopped taking notes and have been simply staring at my notebook. My head is filled with snapshots from last night: Christopher skimming my curves with his hands, Christopher capturing my lips with his, Christopher looking deep into my eyes as he claimed me. My heartbeat accelerates; I take a shaky sip from my water bottle, willing it to slow back down. But I’ve lost my focus, now, and let myself wade into the memories as if into warm water.
My daydreams are interrupted by a tap on my shoulder. I jump at the touch. When the teacher’s back is turned, I look over my shoulder, raising a questioning brow. The girl sitting behind me shrugs and passes me a folded-up piece of paper.
This can’t be good, I think, and look past her to where Donnie is sitting in the back row, as far away from me as possible. He carefully looks everywhere but at me.
Mouthing a thank you to the girl, I turn back around and unfold the paper. In Donnie’s horrible handwriting is scrawled two words: WE’RE OVER.
I should feel sadness. Shouldn’t I? Instead, I’m overcome with relief. A tension I didn’t realize I’ve been carrying unknots itself in my shoulders, and I sink a little deeper, a little more comfortably, into my chair. Donnie wasn’t the worst boyfriend a girl could have--far from it. He didn’t hurt me, physically or emotionally; he wasn’t overly egotistical or clueless. I was just never very attracted to him, and, after last night, probably couldn’t have ever even kissed him again. Not after Christopher had shown me what real, primal, can’t-keep-my-hands-off-a-man attraction feels like.
Pushing past relief is another emotion: excitement. I feel a grin tug at my lips, and duck my head, lest anyone see it and report back to Donnie. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I don’t want anything to do with him at all. In this moment, as a newly free woman, all I want is to see Christopher again.
And I plan to.
The bell rings, and I nearly erupt from my desk, flying out the door before Donnie or anyone else has a chance to stop me. Let my ex-boyfriend think that I’m too overcome with grief to speak with him. Instead, I’m impatient for the rest of my classes to pass, so that I can be reunited with the man of my dreams. I have more than a few things on my mind that I’m eager to share with Chris, and I can only hope that he likes what he hears.
6
Chris
The mid-afternoon sun blazes cheerfully outside my office windows, but the light does nothing to improve my mood. Neither does my fifth cup of coffee of the day, which usually works miracles. This one has even been spiked with a top-shelf bottle of bourbon I keep locked in my desk drawer. If even liquor can’t dissolve my sour attitude, then nothing will.
The day thus far has been an endless parade of meetings and presentations, most of which I had to lead. Usually I enjoy speaking in front of my colleagues because I’m proud of the work we do, and confident in my contributions to the business. Today though, I’ve been far more distracted than usual, and my work hasn’t met my own strict standards. It’s nothing that will affect the business in catastrophic ways; I’m probably being too hard on myself, as usual. But if I don’t achieve a certain level of productivity, I spend the rest of the day communicating solely in grunts and scowls, like a cantankerous caveman.
I just can’t, for the life of me, get a certain curly-haired, curvaceous young woman out of my head.
Rick texted me first thing this morning. Thanks for dropping off pizza last night! He had written, with a thumbs-up emoji. Bailey says she really enjoyed it. Appreciate you, man.
If only he knew what exactly his daughter had enjoyed. Appreciation would be the last thing on his mind.
Sitting at my desk, I read the text for the hundredth time today, then groan and drop my head into my hands. I haven’t been able to formulate a response yet. Guilt perches like a devil on my shoulder, poking me intermittently with its fiery pitchfork. Out of everyone I could have fucked last night, I had to choose my best friend’s barely-legal daughter? I have several women on speed dial--women out of their teens--who would have jumped at the chance to get into bed with me. Instead, I scared the piss out of a teenage boy, publicly humiliated him, and then had sex with a woman—really, a girl—whom I’ve known since she was fresh out of diapers.