Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“What are you talking about?” I took a step backward to give us some space. It was hard to be in his space and not feel transparent with my feelings.
The jealousy.
The envy.
The true feelings hidden beneath mounds of stubborn pride.
The fear of telling him the truth only to be rejected.
“A hunter. A goddess like Artemis.”
I scoffed at Colten’s comparison. “Are you seriously still reading Greek mythology? I can recommend much better books.”
“Ancient literature, thank you very much. And yes, I’m still reading it. So don’t roll your googly eyes at me. I’m complimenting you. I realize there’s a little controversy when it comes to Artemis, but true scholars believe she was fiercely protective of those who were considered weak. Reclusive but passionately defensive. A champion of purity … the virgin kind.” He smirked. “However, she was quite temperamental and rather unsympathetic to men. Sound familiar?”
“No. Not really. I’m very sympathetic to men. I mean … we’re still friends, right? Something tells me Heather wouldn’t be near as tolerant of your nerdy side. She’s a fan of your jock side. You know, the side you actively try to repress and secretly despise just to spite your father?”
“Look at you effortlessly proving my point, Watts. Again, just like Artemis, you possess a lack of mercy and an overabundance of pride. Sadly, those were her greatest weaknesses, and I think they’re yours as well.”
“I don’t possess a lack of mercy.” I scoffed.
“You kill Bambi.” Colten’s nose wrinkled.
“Bambi’s dad, dumbass. Nobody kills Bambi, not even my dad. Hunters have compassion, Mr. High and Mighty, who gives not a single thought to the true brutality your double cheeseburger lunch suffered to make it into your fast-food sack next to a pile of cold fries and ten billion packets of ketchup.”
“Dinner, kiddos!” Becca called upstairs.
We stared at each other through a series of silent blinks. It wasn’t the first time the dinner bell interrupted our meaningless conversation. Neither Colten nor I ever participated in debate club, but we both would have excelled. We spent hours, sometimes days, debating the most ridiculous topics.
“Do store-bought chickens suffer more than hunted chickens? I think the enchiladas are made with store-bought chickens. I’ve never seen my mom snap a chicken’s neck, so I assume it died by some other means. Lethal injection? Personally, I think I’d prefer the injection to someone snapping my neck.”
My head eased side to side. “You don’t see the neck snap coming. No fear. Just … snap. Done. Dead. No suffering. But you know something bad is about to happen when you’re restrained, and a needle’s shoved into your vein. Ticktock … the end is slowly approaching, and you can’t stop it. The fear is terrifying and crippling. And no … chickens don’t die from lethal injection.”
Colten had a way of looking at me for several silent seconds after I’d speak. And just as his face threatened to morph into amusement, he rubbed the pads of his fingers over his lips to erase all signs of a grin because he knew I’d lose my shit if I thought he was making fun of me.
“Do you think you’ll ever let me give you a compliment without it turning into the most ridiculous argument?”
“We’re not arguing,” I … argued. “Do you think you’ll ever give me a compliment without presenting it in the form of a saga?”
“You’re a skilled huntress.” He gave me a sharp nod, a nonverbal period to his simple compliment.
It was my turn to hide my amusement. Huntress. Everything about that word implied something mythical in my head. “Thank you.” I almost choked on those two words. I wanted to tell him the word huntress was a little extreme for me. I occasionally went hunting or fishing with my dad. I’d never been hunting on my own for anything besides insects, okay … I might have happened upon some roadkill here and there.
“You’re welcome. Let’s eat.”
As he reached the door, I spewed the words I told myself I wouldn’t say. “Why did you wink at me? After the game, Heather hugged you, and you winked at me. If you were my boyfriend, and you hugged me while winking at another girl, you’d be my ex-boyfriend.”
Colten turned a few degrees, his head twisted but not fully looking at me. “I’ve been your boyfriend … a lot. And I’ve been your ex-boyfriend … a lot. And when I was your boyfriend, I never winked at another girl.” He shrugged a shoulder.
I bit my tongue because I didn’t have the courage to tell him that I never felt like the girl he deserved. He could spin things all day long, trying to explain away my personality and passions under the guise of mythical goddess likenesses. Guys like Colten Mosley were genetically bred to be with Annies and Heathers, even cheer squad captains like Kaitlyn.