Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Shayne pulls my sheet up around her, and I see her wall starting to slide back in place, so I thow some sweatpants on, turn off my light, and crawl into bed with her, tugging her naked, boneless body back into my chest. She’s tense at first, but then she starts to relax, and her breathing evens out, telling me that she’s fallen asleep.
I push away the hint of guilt that tries to break though, allowing myself the temporary comfort of having Shayne back in my bed. I don’t know what this means for us, but I’ll worry about the fallout tomorrow.
Shayne
Thayer’s heavy arm is locked around me, his breathing coming out in steady breaths behind me. I don’t know what woke me. All I know is that I have the sudden urge to bolt. Sleeping here, being here like this with him…it’s a bad idea. It makes me want things I know I can’t have. After last night’s revelations, I feel like we turned a corner, but everyone knows words said in the heat of the moment are to be taken with a grain of salt. I don’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes that always seems to come after we give in to temptation. And I definitely don’t want to risk doing the walk of shame and getting busted by Christian or Holden.
I give myself thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to soak in the feeling of Thayer’s arm wrapped around the curve of my hip, his hand gripping my boob, even in sleep. I imagine what it would be like if he was just a boy and I was just a girl and our parents hadn’t ever met. I wonder how things would be by now if Danny hadn’t died. When my thirty seconds are up, I slip out from his hold, trying my best not to wake him. He groans in his sleep, rolling onto his back as I sit on the edge of his bed, wearing nothing but his scent and the bruises his mouth left on my skin, and I miss his warmth immediately. His shirt has risen enough to expose the V lines that lead below his low-slung sweatpants and I chew on my thumbnail, having to talk myself out of crawling back into bed.
But our story isn’t a fairytale. More like a Shakespearean tragedy. Allowing myself to believe otherwise is pathetic, and allowing this thing to go any further than it already has is reckless. Because when everything comes crumbling down, I’m going to be the one left feeling empty and alone. Again. I stand, using one arm to band across my bare chest, and push my wild hair out of my face, looking for my clothes.
Shit. Where are my shorts? I replay last night’s events in my mind, trying to remember what I did with them, when I realize they must still be downstairs. I’ll have to throw my dress from last night on. Tiptoeing over to my pile of soiled clothes, my hopes are dashed when I pick up the cold, still wet fabric. I consider putting it on anyway, but then I spot Thayer’s discarded hoodie on the floor next to the bed.
Good enough.
Bending over, I pluck it off the floor then slide my arms through the sleeves before zipping it up. I consider stealing a pair of his boxers, too, but his dresser is on the other side of the room, and I don’t want to risk getting caught. Luckily, his hoodie hits mid-thigh, so I slip on my Converse, tuck my wet underwear inside my pocket, and decide to abandon the dress entirely. I don’t care if I ever see it again, but I’m not going to leave my underwear on Thayer’s floor. Picking up my purse, I sling it over my head, the strap lying across my chest, and with one last look at Thayer’s sleeping form, I leave.
I shut the door behind me, slowly releasing the doorknob so as to not make a sound. I make my way down the stairs, cringing when one of the steps creaks beneath my foot. Tiptoeing the rest of the way down, I take in the unholy number of empty cups and bottles left on every surface. It’ll no doubt be gone in a couple hours once Holden calls their cleaners over to cover up the evidence.
Once I’m at the bottom of the stairs with the front door in sight, I breathe out a sigh of relief. That is, until it opens, revealing August. I freeze, rooted to the bottom step, heart racing. The shock on his face matches my own as his eyes roam over my bare legs, making their way up to my sex hair. He scowls at me, his expression troubled and angry. He calmly sets his briefcase down on the entryway table, closing the door behind him. His eyes drift past me, noticing the mess, but he doesn’t seem to care one way or another.