Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Okay, so I was wrong.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Every time I moved my mouth, pain shot through my gums. Motherfucker almost knocked my fucking teeth out, now I’ll send his in a cute little package for his mother to wear around her neck. Here’s your pearl necklace, bitch. Signed, TEKC. Everything stung. Pain. And still, that was nothing compared to what I had lived through tonight, but the pain reminded me that I survived.
She obviously laid down beside me because I could feel her body weight sink into the mattress, her hair splaying out over my arm.
“Why does it smell in here?” she asked softly, and I held my breath again.
I wanted to say, why the fuck are you in my bed? No one comes in my room, let alone on my goddamn bed, but I didn’t. I remained silent because I was afraid if I said anything, she’d see straight through the words I used and snatch the ones I was trying to hide.
I flexed my fingers, but electricity shot up my arm, spreading out through my veins. It was worth it.
The thing about Saint is, she talks. A fucking lot. You would expect her to be quiet, because she looks demure and carries herself with a rare kind of grace that is usually only captured by something fucking celestial like a seraph. She’s not. She’s bold enough to be inquisitive about every-fucking-thing in this world, and I think I’m partly to blame for that. I have always hovered over her like a monster, ready to tear anyone apart that comes near.
“Brantley?” she whispered. Her voice had a direct fucking line to every switch inside my body.
I hated it.
“Are you bleeding again?”
Saint
Present
It was too dark for it to be morning. I knew as much when I opened my eyes. My lace curtains swayed with the wind that was drifting through my room, cold yet oddly serene. White fabric moved with the lace. I rub my eyes and open them again, but just as my lashes lift from my cheek, a dark shadow zips past me, ducking behind the curtain. I jump off the bed in shock, fear crawling through me, its sharp nails moving down my spine.
“Who’s there?”
I rub my eyes again, suddenly more awake than I was a second ago. Opening them again, I reach for the curtain to push it out of the way. “Who—” It’s empty. My antique three-piece outdoor setting sits in the corner, with my mini Monstera plant in the center of the table.
“I’m going crazy.” I patter toward the bathroom where my white marble tub is mounted in the center beside my freestanding rainforest shower. I love my bathroom. Windows overlook the front of the house, but all of my different species of ferns hang from various places. Brantley calls my bedroom and bathroom “a fucking jungle,” but I think it’s just perfect.
Turning on the faucet near the sink, I splash water on my face, dabbing the moisture off my cheeks with Egyptian cotton. The room is quiet. Secluded. But I’m used to it. I’m more comfortable in silence than I am around noise.
Moving my way through my bedroom, around my plants, I change for the day, switching into something comfortable enough to garden in. Since I was a child, gardening has been my outlet. It was a hobby, but now it’s more like a lifestyle. To be able to grow and nurture something that is alive gives me a sense of purpose.
I’m jogging down the stairwell, raking my hair up into a high pony when I pause in my steps. Brantley is leaning against the wall opposite me, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders straight. I’ve never known him outside of these walls, never seen him interact with his peers or in social settings. Brantley has always come off as closed, cold, and completely unapproachable, but seeing how he moved around his friends last night, I’m guessing there’s a whole lot to him that not even I know.
Sometimes it’s not about the words people whisper into your ear in the dark; most times it’s about what they say in front of an audience.
I’m beginning to feel as though the Brantley I know is a mere outline of the whole artistic picture that is Brantley Vitiosis. I want to study it as a whole, learn the curves and the brush strokes, but I can’t do that until he bares it all to me.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, playing with the leather bangle that’s around my wrist.
“What did Tillie talk to you about last night?” He pushes off the wall and makes his way into the kitchen. I follow behind him slowly, watching as the muscles in his back flex while he gathers the ingredients he needs for a protein shake.
“She asked about some details of me being here,” I say softly, pulling out a barstool while remaining focused on him.