Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
LEAH: Can I come over?
Before I had typed out No, the little response bubbles danced over the screen.
LEAH: Max saw texts from you.
LEAH: He got mad and lost it.
If he had lost his shit over texts, it wasn’t my texts, but hers. Half of the time, I didn’t respond to her. The other half, I was a condescending asshole.
LEAH: Please let me come stay at yours.
ME: Have you ever slept in my bed?
The answer to that was no. Girls didn’t sleep in my bed.
ME: That’s not changing tonight
LEAH: I thought he was going to hit me.
I stared at that text. Max was a rich bastard. An entitled prick who was most likely raised by a set of entitled pricks. My mom had messed around with a few of the men from Barrington when I was little, and they had treated her like shit. Yelling and cussing, calling her names. Because as far as they were concerned, she was beneath them. I could see Max being just like those assholes, but then again, Leah was spoiled and manipulative. I wouldn’t put it past her to lie about Max almost hitting her to try to gain some pity.
ME: Sounds like you have shit taste in guys
LEAH: Your an asshole.
ME: *you are
Then I sent a thumbs up and settled back, scrolling through my phone. I ran across the text to Monroe from the night when she didn’t get my beer. And down the rabbit hole, I went.
I searched her name on social media. Nothing came up, but I found the weirdo’s page. Amongst the Jack Skellington images and the Edgar Allen Poe quotes were a few pictures of her and Monroe. And they were both actually smiling, and damn, Monroe wasn’t just hot when she smiled, she was downright beautiful.
I followed the tag in Jade’s images, and the only photos on Monroe’s account: a picture of a sunset over an interstate, and one of some mangy-looking orange tabby cat. The girl had two Instagram pictures that weren’t even selfies. No way in hell she would fall for Max Harford, she seemed too good for that bullshit. Or maybe I just wanted to believe she was.
* * *
The morning sun streamed through the windows of Frank’s Famous Chicken, the hole-in-the-wall fast food place that straddled the city limits of Dayton and Barrington. The place reeked of grease and Clorox, but their chicken biscuits were only a buck apiece.
Bellamy plucked a hash brown off of Wolf’s trey. “Did you study for Weaver’s test?” The asshole was looking at me, like I studied for anything.
“Is that a serious question?” I didn’t bother to look up from my food.
“How the hell have you not failed yet?”
Because I had a good memory, and as long as I halfway listened when I pretended to sleep in class, I could do well enough to pass. “Hell if I know.”
The bell over the door dinged. Hendrix let out a howl. “You gotta be kidding me.” He nudged my side, jerking his chin in the direction of the group that had just walked in: Harford and a few of the other letterman-jacketed rich kids. “What the hell are they doing on this side of the tracks?”
From the way Harford and his dipshit friends glared across the restaurant at our table while they waited to order, I assumed it was to stir up a fight. If those Barrington dicks wanted to start one, I’d be more than happy to oblige.
Hendrix rubbed his palms together with a wide, sadistic grin reminiscent of The Joker’s. “I bet one quick pop to his mouth,” Hendrix threw a fast jab at the air, “and Richie Rich would be crying like a little bitch.”
They gathered their trays and filed into a booth on the opposite side of Frank’s. Two seconds later, three of the four were over at our table, staring down at us.
Max squared his shoulders, the guys surrounding him, puffing out their scrawny chests. “Hear you’re trying to talk to my girl, Hunt?”
It wasn’t just that he still wanted Leah when he knew she’d been jonesing for my dick that made me laugh, but top that with the fact that he thought he stood a chance against me in a fight—that was ridiculous.
I pushed to my feet, towering over him, and waiting for the chance to tackle him to the ground. “Leah doesn’t do much talking when my dick’s in her mouth.”
His nostrils flared, a splotchy-red flooding his face. “Not Leah, dumbass. Monroe.”
A shred of shock rippled through me, muscles going rigid. And Max must have seen it because his lips quirked. I balled my fist, ready to land a punch on his face, but froze when Jacobs and two other police officers strolled in. Jacobs stopped a few feet away, and Harford acknowledged the shithead with a wave.