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)
“You’re all related?”
“Fuck no.” His laughter fights with the cloud of smoke. I want to reach forward and take it from him.
“You know that will kill you.”
“What will?” he asks around the cigarette between his lips.
I glare at it.
His jaw tenses a few times before he squeezes the trunk with his index finger and thumb. “I don’t give a fuck at this point.” His eyes fall to the ground.
“Bishop,” I say, turning to face him completely. My heart rocks in my chest for him.
His head dips behind his outstretched arm, his eyes on mine. I can’t see the lower half of his face, but it doesn’t matter because I’m distracted by the emptiness in his eyes.
“What happened?”
For moments, he doesn’t say anything. Not one thing. He just stares at me, unblinking. It tests every restraint in my body to hold myself back from putting my arms around him. He may not have tears, but I swear I can hear his soul weeping.
It’s not until he reaches forward and uses his thumb to swipe away the tears from my cheeks that I realize I am the one who is crying.
I snuff my nose. “Sorry.”
His arm hooks around the back of my neck and he pulls me in close, chuckling. “Gotta make you tough, Little Angelus.”
“Latin?” I say, tilting my head at him.
“Yeah, shit, how’d you know that?”
“I have a lot of time on my hands.”
He laughs, getting to his feet. “Come on. Better get you inside before the Beast realizes Beauty is gone.” We enter the house, and I’m once again left feeling unsatisfied about Bishop and his feelings. I like to fix things. It’s a habit of mine. When I was nine, I tried to “fix” the old tombstones in the cemetery with dusted mud and water. Brantley laughed at me for days. But I don’t think Bishop is broken. I think he’s just—lost. There’s a difference. Lost can still be whole again once it has been found.
Brantley is jogging down the stairs when we enter, his eyes running up and down my body. “You just get back?” He has the usual bite in his tone whenever he’s feeling snappy.
I shrug, unaffected. I’m well-conditioned with handling Brantley Vitiosis, no matter how much time has passed between us seeing each other. “Yes. I take them for at least an hour so it burns them, and me, out good.”
He pauses and clears his throat. “Go take a shower and be ready in thirty minutes.”
“Who me?” I ask, looking between him and Bishop.
Brantley glares at me.
“Okay,” I say, sidestepping away from him and heading up the stairs, as commanded.
They dragged me through the forest, using the lead on the collar. I didn’t want to play anything anymore, and the more the night went on, the more I realized just how much shit I might be in. These boys didn’t mess around; they’re dangerous. I’d never felt scared for my life, but with every passing minute, I lost hope of being set free.
We moved farther and farther in until I was pushed through a clearing. There was a small waterhole in the middle, with chairs scattered around, a small tiki bar and other party items. They obviously used this area for parties, not sure why not tonight. Maybe because they planned this whole thing. They knew who I was from the start.
Brantley pushed me down until my knees dug into the sand, scarring my knees. “We’re going to play a game.” He leaned forward. “You lose, you die. You win? Well…” His eyes flew up to Bishop who was behind me. The full moon hung brightly behind us, casting shadows over Brantley’s face. “Well, I’m afraid you’re probably still going to die.” He paused again, leaning forward until he was close to my face. “Do you know who we are, or furthermore, who I am?”
I shook my head. “I don’t! Am I supposed to?”
Brantley grinned, flashing his straight teeth and dimple. “Wrong answer.”
Brantley
“Do you always have to snap at her like that, you grumpy fucking bastard,” Bishop growls, making his way into the kitchen and pulling down a bottle of whiskey from one of the many alcohol cabinets.
“Madison pushed you to drinking before nine a.m. now?” I reach forward and take the bottle from his fingers.
He squeezes the marble countertop while his head hangs between his shoulders. It’s a brief moment, before he stands to his full height and stares right at me. “It doesn’t matter.”
I put the bottle back into the cupboard and open one of the drawers, pulling out a padlock. “This shit is locked until five p.m.”
“How do you not drink?” Bishop asks, running his fingers through his hair. “You out of all of us…”
I lean on the counter, finally pulling my shirt on. I know why he’s saying this, but I don’t know why he’s bringing it up right now. “Why? Because of everything I’ve been through?” I roll my eyes at the cliché way of how someone should heal if they’ve been through trauma. Not everyone turns to alcohol and drugs. Some need something worse…