Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Thankfully, I know where he parks his car and I catch up to him right as he starts the engine. I don’t think twice as I hop in the passenger seat, panting.
He stares at me. “What are you doing?”
“Going with you.”
“Where do you think I’m going?”
“I don’t care.”
“It could be a dangerous place.”
I scoff. “I think I’m used to that already.”
“You have no idea how dangerous some addictions can become, Naomi.”
“Is that what we have? An addiction?”
“An addiction. An obsession. A madness. Take your pick. Oh, or maybe it’s shallow, too.”
I release a shaky breath. “I was agitated by Reina and I just didn’t want her to know…”
“Know what?”
How deep it really goes for us. Or at least, for me.
But I don’t say that or it’ll become a reality I’ll have to face.
“What we have,” I say quietly.
“So we have something. And here I thought I wasn’t your type.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“Because that’s your thing?”
“Stop it.”
His eyes darken. “You know I love that word.”
The base of my stomach shrivels as blood pumps to my face and neck. Ever since the night he asked me to open up about what happened to me in return for him opening up about himself, Sebastian keeps his monster-self separated from who he is.
This is the first time he’s actually alluded to what we do in the dark while being the star quarterback.
Is this progress or just…dangerous?
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Have you ever thought about hurting others?”
“Of course, I have. All the time.”
“Why don’t you act on it?”
“Because it’ll give me a label and a bad reputation.”
“And that’s so bad?”
“When you come attached with my family name, it is. I need to have a good reputation so no one suspects me.”
“Wow.” I relax into my seat, fingering the bottle of apple juice as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Since when did you come to that conclusion?”
“Since a boy in elementary school was called a bully for giving me a bloody nose. When the fact was, I broke his toy. No one believed him after he beat me up because in the world’s eyes, he had a bad reputation and I was the victim.”
“You weren’t.”
He lifts a shoulder. “They believed it. That’s what matters.”
“Does that mean everything you do is make-believe?”
“To an extent.”
“So…your true self is the beast?”
He smiles, a predatory one. “Is that what you call me in your head?”
“Just answer the question,” I blurt, embarrassed to my bones.
“I wouldn’t say I’m him entirely. Just like not every part of you is the prey.”
“That’s what you call me?”
“That or toy.”
For some reason, that doesn’t feel odd or degrading. I get off on the name-calling during sex, but this feels different. Almost like our secret language.
I stare at Sebastian. Like really stare at him and his sculpted beauty that’s fit for models. Why would a person like him get off on that depravity? What turned the boy who was beaten up at school into the beast?
“Do you keep those two facets of you entirely separated?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“The answer depends on your answer.”
“My answer to what?”
“What happened to you?”
My fingers tremble and I jam the straw into the bottle of juice, then take a long swig. “I was born without a father and…it fucked me up. When I was younger, I looked at other kids and hated my mom for not letting me have a father. Then I thought maybe she had me from one of those fertilization clinics and I was supposed to be fatherless. You might say that’s not a big deal. I thought so as well until I realized I wouldn’t be the same if I’d had a father. Or maybe I’m just trying to make an excuse and be…normal. Because normal families don’t have bad shit happen to them.”
“They do.” His voice is quiet. “My parents were normal people without much ambition. They were so normal and righteous, they left my grandparents’ sides to live a bland life, but they died in an accident, anyway. Striving for normal didn’t save them. It may have made their deaths more imminent.”
“I’m…sorry.”
“Why?”
“Huh?”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Isn’t that what people say in these circumstances?”
“I don’t get the sentiment behind it. They were my parents and I don’t even think of them anymore. Why would you be sorry for their deaths when you didn’t know them and didn’t have anything to do with it?”
Oh, God. I suspected it before, but I’m almost sure now. “Do you maybe…lack empathy?”
“The ability to understand and share the feelings of someone else.”
“I don’t want the definition. Do you feel it?”
“I suppose not.”
“That’s…a form of antisocial characteristics.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“By whom?”
“My gazillion therapists and my uncle. They don’t want me to be that way, so I managed to make them think I do feel empathy.”