Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Just because my vagina is blinded by his good looks doesn’t mean my head stops working. Although the throbbing sensation in my lower leg is another matter altogether. That’s definitely inhibiting my ability to think.
“I’m premed if that makes you feel better.”
“Not even a little,” I grumble. A beat later I’m screaming in blinding pain. My ankle feels like it’s being stabbed by a hot knife.
“I think you sprained your ankle.”
“Thanks, Dr. Moron. Maybe try not poking it!”
He battens down another smile and rakes chestnut brown hair out of his eyes. “Let’s go.”
That’s all the warning I get before I’m scooped up. One minute I’m on the ground and the next I’m hovering high above it, an infant cradled in the arms of a handsome giant. Who smells of chlorine? I’m fairly certain it’s chlorine.
“Whoa.” My head spins and I’m not sure if it’s due to the heat, the near-death experience, or vertigo.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“I won’t drop you,” he says, readjusting his grip. “You can loosen the chokehold you have on me.”
My gaze flickers to his. Traffic light green eyes flash amusement. I get stuck in that gaze for a while. His irises remind me of those cartoon swirling wheels intended to hypnotize.
Green means go. Green means go, Bailey.
I must’ve hit my head. That’s the only plausible explanation.
“You’re sure you’re feeling alright?”
The rasp knocks me out of my spell. I peel my fingers off his neck and realize my fingers have left a red welt on his warm, bronzed skin. Jesus. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“I’ll survive.”
Something feels off. I’m forgetting something. “My stuff!”
“I’ll grab it. Let me get you in the car first.”
Bad driver, as I’ve come to think of him, gently places me in the Jeep’s passenger seat, careful not to bump my sore ankle. Then he leaves to retrieve my backpack.
In the meantime, I take stock of my situation. Swollen ankle that has been steadily growing larger by the second. A busted car that will cost me serious dough. No way to get to and from my off-campus job at the Slow Drip coffee shop––a job that pays a portion of my living expenses. Also, one that I only started a few days ago, which means I have no leverage with the manager.
My father works for the U.S. Postal Service and my stepmom’s an emergency room nurse. Wealth and the Bailey name have never been synonymous. They’re doing the best they can to help me out. I couldn’t possibly ask them for more. It dawns upon me now that my parents will be worried sick with me so far away. Especially my stepmom.
My mood is officially damp. I don’t even want to contemplate the possibility of my ankle being broken. That would almost certainly signify the end of my dream. I would be forced to drop out.
“Here you go,” bad driver says as he hands me my bag. I waste no time ripping open the zipper to check on my equipment.
The thought of it being thrown to the ground makes me twitchy. It took me years to save up enough to buy my collection of cameras, forgoing Rutgers University for a community college so I could use my savings to make the purchase. Not only is it absolutely necessary if I want to make independent films and submit them to production companies and film festivals, it also functions as my savings account. I have a ton of money invested in them. My cameras are my safety net in case of a catastrophe.
“What’s in there?” He looks genuinely curious.
I shoulder-block his line of sight, shoot him a wary glare. I’m from Jersey––we think everyone is trying to steal from us. “My equipment.”
“Cameras?”
I slide an assessing glance over him. He looks like a Disney prince. Clean-cut, close shave. Expression open, stare earnest. He even has the requisite dip in the chin. All he’s missing is a red cloak.
The grimace comes naturally, so does suspicion. “Yeah.”
It’s a rare occasion that I don’t have some of it on me. At a minimum, I usually have my Leica in my backpack.
“Cool. Can I see?”
This prince is nosy. “No, you may not see.”
Fighting a grin, his white teeth, stark against his tan, bear down on his lower lip. “You a film major?”
This guy is awfully chatty. “Yes, are you in the NSA?” I fire back and watch his lips tremble. I’m glad I can entertain him.
The Jeep shoots uphill, making me brace against the door. As tempting as the prospect of ending up in this guy’s lap sounds, I’m starting to cold sweat from the pain in my ankle and getting anxious about the extent of the injury.
“Where are you taking me?”
He studies the open suspicion on my face. “To the medical center. Where do you think?”
“To dispose of what’s left of the evidence.”