Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 151765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Seriously. I needed Clint time. I needed to remember the thrill of getting in trouble again. I needed to toughen up again.
A high-pitched whistle sounded. Scout was there in his truck, his window down, his arm resting outside and he was not amused. “Let’s go!”
Cohen was in the back, and he was grinning from behind Scout.
Gem giggled, skipping over to them and she climbed into the back by Cohen.
I got in the front, sitting stiffly, but he didn’t seem to care as he took off.
We dropped Gem off first, and Cohen was right after. Almost literally because he climbed out behind Gem, after the two had been shoving each other in the back the whole ride over. Both were laughing, and if I’d been questioning if they knew each other, that would have been put to rest. The two were giving off siblings-who-were-crazy-about-each-other vibes. Gem had pinched Cohen in the chest and he reciprocated by tickling her, which had her shrieking, but still laughing shrieking.
It was contagious. By the time they left, I was pulled out of my mood until the door closed behind Cohen, and yeah.
I remembered.
Everything else left me because I was choking again, but choking from the past. Choking from the future. Choking from what brought me here. Choking from what could come and get me. “You live in the old Catering house, right?”
I had no idea what that meant, but nodded. “Sure. Yeah.”
I was quiet on the way to my place, and when he pulled into my driveway, the house was dark. I’d not checked my phone, but it was past midnight by now. My mom had probably stayed for a double shift.
“Your mom’s asleep?”
I laughed, an ugly laugh. “She’s working.”
He glanced my way.
I felt his question, though he didn’t say a word.
And somehow, for some reason, that unfolded me. I wanted to tell him.
I wanted to tell someone.
But why him?
Why him?
“You’re living with your uncle?” The words gutted out of me. Abrupt. I didn’t know I was going to say them until I said them.
“Yeah.”
“Why? What happened with your family?” I looked his way and found him slightly frowning at me. There were dark shadows over his face, but it was night. Dark. The moon was out. The shadows made sense. Still. It seemed more with him, like he was supposed to be in the shadow. That thought made something want to crinkle up inside me and disappear. He was hiding when I didn’t want to, when I was tired of hiding.
But it was momentary.
I’d have a clear head tomorrow.
“Daydream” from Lily Meola came on the radio at that moment, and I almost laughed because how appropriate. He reached forward, turning it down, and how appropriate was that gesture too?
“Not really getting why you’re bringing up my family?”
Of course that was his response.
I nodded, facing forward, still not moving to reach for the door, to leave the vehicle.
I couldn’t for some reason.
But that was a lie. I knew the reason.
“Is your dad alive?”
“Not your business, Williams.”
“Your mom?” I didn’t care. I kept asking. I needed to know.
I had to know before I could say mine. A tit for a tat. It only made sense to me.
I needed him to give a little, and then I could say.
And I needed to say. I needed to share.
It was killing me.
“Also none of your business.”
“Why are you living with your uncle?”
“Still none of your fucking business—” He was growling.
I didn’t care. “My ex beat me.”
He quieted.
I added into the silence, “He beat me. He stalked me. He did everything a controlling abusive asshole does, and I stayed with him.” Another beat.
My heart felt like it was breaking.
I kept on. “I lied for him. I made excuses for him. I told myself he’d change. I told myself it was a phase and that I needed to love him through it. I was lying to myself.”
There was no radio on.
He didn’t say a word.
I didn’t either.
He’d be the first person outside of my mom or the police who I told. I hadn’t even told my cousins. Mom did that deed for me.
“His family owned Cedra Valley. They owned the police. They owned everyone and everything, and still, there I was. In the police station. Beaten. Bloody. And making a report to try to keep him away from me. Guess how much good that did for me?”
I looked now, still seeing his face in shadow and really hating it.
I was stepping forward. The least he could do was look at me, let me see he was looking at me, but then he did.
He moved forward, shifting so I could see him, and he was right there.
He was watching me.
There was no sadness in him.
No anger.
No disbelief.
Not even resignation. It was as if he’d heard this story before—or, at least, a version of this story with different characters.