Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“They don’t like change. They’re out of sorts and need to be ruled. You think you want anarchy, but I’m not sure you understand what that looks like under these conditions.”
“Lord of the Flies would be preferable to this,” I mutter.
Silas looks up from his phone and scoffs at me. “Oh, fuck off with this act.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask warily.
Since the shit that went down with Sloane, Silas has mostly kept his distance. He’s been giving me the cold shoulder at practice, content to mumble snide remarks under his breath. Guess he’s feeling bold today.
“Your one complaint boils down to being pissed off about getting piles of cash you’ve done practically nothing to earn,” Silas replies. “You don’t like the arrangement, fine. But spare us the insincere bullshit.”
“I’m insincere?” He’s trying my last nerve. “Look, I’ve let some shit slide because I respect the game, but you took your shot with Sloane and fell on your face. I’m with her now and that’s not changing, so you’re welcome to get used to it or fuck off.”
“RJ, come on,” Fenn says. Always the diplomat.
Silas looks as though he might have a few parting remarks, but then thinks better of it. Instead, he picks up his tray and leaves.
Fenn cocks his head at me. “Was that necessary?”
“Yeah. It was.” I pick up my fork again. “I’m not gonna pretend to be broken up about it. And neither should you.”
“He’s my friend,” he says with a shrug.
“Your friend?” I echo, snorting. “Then you should probably know—your friend is the one who sent me out to the woods to find you and Sloane that day. He set you up.”
I’d been reluctant to tell Fenn until now. Thanks to his moment of petty jealousy, Silas has already lost any chance of repairing a friendship with Sloane. I figured the punishment already fit the crime, which meant there was no need to bring his friendship with Fenn into it. But if he’s not content to take the L and walk, I’m not about to protect his reputation.
CHAPTER 23
CASEY
I’VE NEVER BEEN OUT THIS WAY BEFORE. WELL NORTH OF THE LAKE, through the narrow mountain passes and winding county roads. Sloane’s never liked road trips and, well, since the accident, I haven’t done much driving.
“You’re developing a taste for it.”
Lawson sounds amused while he watches me stick a hand out the open window to feel the wind travel between my fingers. The Porsche races at ever-increasing speeds past country houses that catch a brief glimpse of us through the trees.
“Maybe a little,” I admit.
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t ever let anyone make you ashamed of living, Casey.”
I have no good reason to trust Lawson Kent. His nefarious reputation precedes him through this life and the next. If even half of what people say is true, he’s a drunk, a drug addict, a philanderer, and generally lacking in any discernable moral center. But he’s free. Completely unfettered and unconcerned. No one tells Lawson what to do, and he regrets nothing, beholden to no one.
Right now, I just want to follow his example, because there’s a sort of freedom in embracing our most primal selves. We can be scratched off this planet at any moment, so why not enjoy ourselves?
“Can I give it a try?”
He glances at me. “You want to drive?”
“No apologies, right?”
His answering grin is almost proud. “Exactly.”
We pull off at a scenic overlook with the sun quickly falling toward the rolling horizon. We get out of the convertible and stand beside the wooden rail. In the back of my mind, I know Sloane is already wondering what happened to me. I should have been home over two hours ago.
“You ever think about how when no one knows where you are, it’s like you’ve stepped outside of time?” I wonder aloud.
We could disappear. Keep driving in the wrong direction and get lost. Stay lost. Become someone else. Invent a new reality and write ourselves out of an existence that’s always felt inevitable.
“Every day,” he says, watching the sky turning to purples and pink. “It’s kind of like, somewhere, every possible version of ourselves is making every conceivable decision.” He chuckles. “Inflicting infinite new variations of us on the universe. Makes you think, fuck, what does it matter if I have another drink or fly to Thailand?”
“Or steal a car and go joyriding.”
“Or that.” He combs his fingers through his light-brown hair, which comes nearly to his shoulders, slicking it away from his forehead.
I never took Lawson seriously before, so I suppose I never noticed how handsome he is. Or how his usual sarcasm and crassness obscure the sincerity in his eyes when he isn’t trying to convince you of his intense desire to be perpetually alone. I know that instinct.
“You know, all in all, I’m starting to think you might not be such a bad boy,” I tease.