Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Yes, I know I’m a dork.
And I also look like a complete dick, standing here, staring into the window of a closed store. But I daren’t turn around in case Sex God is still there.
I can’t hear him and his friends anymore, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
I look at the reflection in the store window to try to see if he and his friends are still there, but I can’t.
Okay, so I’m just going to have to suck it up. Turn around and casually walk away like I wasn’t just staring at the hottie.
One…two…three…
And they’re gone.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that I’m probably never going to see Sex God again.
I stare at the boxing machine where he just was and have the sudden urge to try it before I head home. Not because Sex God touched it. I’m not that much of a loser. I’ve just never tried one before, and I wonder if I’m any good.
I walk over to the arcade and stop at the boxing machine.
Fifty cents.
I dig into the pocket of my skinny jeans and pull out some coins.
I push them into the slot, and the machine lights up. The punching bag lowers.
I curl up my fist, ready.
Can’t be that hard, right?
I pull my arm back and punch it.
Apparently, it is that hard.
Because I don’t even move the bag back up to make a score. It just kind of wobbles a bit but stays put.
Well, that’s embarrassing.
I glance around to see if anyone saw, but no one is paying me any attention.
Okay. Try again, Cam. You can do this.
I prepare myself a bit more this time.
I shake out my shoulders, loosening up. I spread my legs apart and plant my feet. Then, I swing my arm back and punch the bag.
Yay! I did it!
But…oh…is that the lowest score you can get?
Yep, that’s me.
Right. I’m going again.
And, this time, I’m going to hit the crap out of this punching bag. It will not defeat me.
I get another fifty cents out of my pocket and drop the coins into the slot. The punching bag comes down.
“You’re wasting your money.”
“Wha—” I turn to the voice and—holy shit.
It’s Sex God. He’s standing right there. Looking at me.
Jesus. His eyes. Blue. Like the bluest of blue. The I-want-to-dive-into-them-and-never-again-come-up-for-air blue.
“Your stance is all wrong,” he tells me. “You’ll never get a good swing at the bag, standing like that.” He nods at my legs.
I look down at them. They look okay to me.
“What’s wrong with my legs?” I say.
He chuckles right as I hear those words echo back in my head, and I have to bite back a groan of embarrassment.
“Well, nothing’s wrong with them.” He lifts a shoulder. “They’re great legs. Best I’ve seen in fact. But the way you’re standing isn’t right. Your hips can’t turn while you’re standing like that, meaning there’s no swing in your punch. No swing, no force.”
Great legs.
Best he’s seen.
Honestly, I didn’t hear anything else after that.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He chuckles again. “You need to move your legs. Stand like this.” He shows me with his own.
“Okay.” I move my legs to mirror how he’s standing.
“That’s right,” he tells me. “And, now, you need to tilt your hips back a little, like this.”
I follow his instructions, tilting my hips.
“Then, put your hand into a fist, thumb on the outside. Pull your arm back, and let your hips pivot around. As you swing, put all your body weight into that punch.”
I do as he said. I swing back and then put all my body weight behind my arm. Along with all my emotions from leaving Baltimore and my friends and from those mean girls from before.
I hit that bag with everything I have. I feel the moment my fist connects with the leather, and I get a good hit in.
The bag slams back up, and the numbers start to rise.
Medium hitter!
Yes!
“I did it!” I bounce on my toes, excited.
“You did.” His lips lift at the corner into a half-smile. The sexiest smile I’ve ever seen.
And I’m a puddle at his feet.
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Thanks,” I say.
“No biggie.” He shrugs.
“How do you know about boxing?” I ask him.
“I’m a boxer.”
“Like, a real boxer?”
Kill me. Kill me now.
He smiles again. “Yeah, like, a real boxer. Well, I’m not pro. Amateur at the moment. I can’t go pro until I get my boxing license, and I can’t get that until I’m eighteen.”
“You’re not eighteen already?”
“Seventeen.”
“Wow. You look much older.”
He laughs. “I hear that a lot.”
“So, you’re a senior?”
“Junior. My birthday’s in September.”
“Ah. August baby here.”
“Junior, too?”
“Nope. Sophomore. I’m fifteen,” I add, like I need to highlight that fact to him.
Way to go, Cam. Turn him off with your age.
Not that he was turned on by me…but whatever.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. I feel a stab of disappointment in my chest, which is crazy because I’ve only just met the guy.