Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I look like shit.
Not as bad as I did a few months back—not nearly—but still, not like me. For starters, I'm too damn skinny. I remember around the time Priscilla Heat and her lowlife partner in crime, Jim Gunn, hauled my friend Lizzy and me off to Mexico, hoping to dispose of us so we didn’t spill their human trafficking secret, I was really thin. I could feel my hip bones and my ribs. The bones in my wrists and hands jutted out, and my face looked like I needed to eat a motherfucking sandwich.
I’m not that bad off now, but I still look different. Muscle over bone and not a whole lot else. Then there's the scars: on my temple, in my hair, under my collar, on my neck, on my hands, the creases of my elbows...and way too many underneath my clothes. I realize in this moment that I hate them. They make me feel... Fuck, I don't know. Like a turtle without a shell.
I grit my teeth and rub my right hand through my hair. Tuck my bum left hand into my pants pocket and shove through the bathroom door.
I don't bother faking it for Suri. No need for a phony smile as I step into the little loft above my bike shop, where I keep my weights, my mini-fridge, two plastic bins of clothes, and my narrow bed.
Suri is perched on the edge of my mattress, wearing some kind of silky, pale green dress that's short enough to show off her legs and strappy over her sun-kissed shoulders. Goes well with her hazel eyes and brown curls.
Her eyes widen. “What happened?”
I frown before remembering my jaw. “Oh.” I cover it with my right hand, but it's too late. Suri's on her feet, gliding toward me in a haze of sweet perfume. With her chest only inches from my pecs, she catches my hand in hers and spreads her fingers over mine, so for a second we're both touching my face. Our fingers tangle further as she pushes my hand away from the cut and makes a clucking sound.
Her subtly made-up eyes flick to mine. An eyebrow arches. “Shaving, weren't you?”
“Smart, aren't you?” I smirk at her, and Suri swats at me. “I am smart. Smarter than some of us, who’d rather hack themselves to pieces than ask for help!” She sticks her pink tongue out, wiggling it in a way that tightens my pants. “I bet you hadn't shaved in days. Am I right?” She folds her arms, giving me a pointed, wifely look.
I shrug and shift my feet, putting a bit of space between us as I look her over. “What about you, Madeline? Paris treat you ladies right?”
Suri grins. “I’m surprised you know your kid lit.”
I shrug. “Lizzy's house.” I mean Lizzy’s childhood home, where I hid out for a few months when the shit with my dad and the whole sex slave/mistress situation got sketchy. “She said she got the Madeline books to give to Martine or whatever her name is. Her little sister.” As in, from Big Brothers Big Sisters. I shrug. “But they ended up in Lizzy’s bathroom.”
“Where you read them.” Suri smiles gently, touching my elbow with the back of her hand. Her eyes linger on mine half a second too long, and I can't ignore the emotion that I see in them: not just friendship, but something more akin to...adoration. Probably just seeing things.
A second later, the look melts off her face, and she reaches into her purse for a little pack of tissue. I grit my teeth as she dabs my jaw. Her thin brows pinch together as she draws it away, opening her purse again, this time to pull out a small bottle of water. She pours a few drops on the tissue. Instead of letting her wipe at my face again, I grab the thing from her and do it myself.
I can tell she doesn't like that. She tries to keep her face neutral, but I know her well enough to see the way her mouth pulls down just a little at the corners. Disappointed.
I don't get it. Am I supposed to let her mother me? Why would she want to? It’s not like my own mother ever did. I ball the tissue up and toss it onto my bed, not caring if the blood stains my dingy gray blanket.
It wasn't always like this—things so complicated between Lizzy, Suri, and me. For years, Suri's parents called us the Three Musketeers, and we were good friends. Just friends. I fucked it up first by getting a hard-on for Lizzy. Then Lizzy met Hunter West, they got engaged, and I put a cap on my feelings. Around the same time, Suri and her fiancé, Adam, had a messy split, and I was laid up in rehab. I think Suri needed the distraction of me. I’m not gonna lie: I love her for it. I will always love her for it. But I don't love this. The expectation.