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)
“Thank fuck.” He rounds the car, coming for the passenger side door and yanks the handle. “Come on, Shayne. Let me in.”
I squint, assessing his glassy eyes and the way he sways on his feet. He’s either really drunk or really hurt. Either way, he’s fucked up.
Headlights appear in my rearview mirror, coming up way too fast. I snap into action, hitting the unlock button. Holden stumbles into my passenger seat, filling my car with the scent of alcohol, and quickly closes the door. “Go!” he shouts.
I slam on the gas, my tires screeching against the pavement. Once the car’s no longer visible in my rearview mirror, I reach behind my seat, fishing my extra shirt out of my volleyball bag. “Here.” I toss it at Holden, and he wraps it around his hand.
“Drunk or hurt?”
“Both. The former more than the latter.” He chuckles.
I shake my head. “I don’t even want to know.”
“Probably for the best,” he agrees, reclining the seat to lie back. “Wake me up when we get home.”
Home.
His house. As in Whittemore. Where Thayer lives. I haven’t stepped foot inside in nearly a year. My stomach turns at the prospect of seeing Thayer, my hands tightening around the wheel. Then again, I haven’t seen him in weeks. He’s probably at some college party, anyway. The odds of him being home on a Friday night are slim to none.
“You better not bleed on my seat,” I mutter. Technically, it’s my mom’s old car, but she drives my grandmother’s car now, so I use this one when I need to. It’s not flashy. A little white Nissan that gets me from point A to point B. But that’s all I need.
I don’t expect him to actually pass out in the short five-minute drive to his property, but when I pull up to his open gate and reach over to shake his shoulder, he mumbles something intelligible before promptly falling back asleep.
“Great.”
I follow the long, winding driveway that leads to the house, dread creeping in when I notice all the cars lining both sides. Dozens of them. Daddy Dearest must be out of town. That’s the only time the boys decide to throw a party. Not that it’s exactly a rare occasion—he’s gone more often than not, staying at his apartment in the city most nights—and he doesn’t give a shit, so long as they clean up their mess. I follow the road up to the circular driveway and around the old brick water fountain surrounded by wildflowers that sits in the center, then throw my car into park.
“We’re here,” I say, shaking his shoulder. He doesn’t budge. “Holden!” I snap. “Wake. Up.”
He finally rouses, looking over at me as if he has no idea how he got here.
“You’re home,” I say, gesturing toward the front door. He scans his surroundings, taking in the clusters of people drinking on the steps and scattered across the lawn.
“Thanks, little sister,” he slurs, reaching for the handle. He falls out of the car, landing on the pavement, and a groan follows.
Dammit. I throw my door open and hurry over to help him up. All two hundred pounds of drunk, sweaty, dead weight. I wrap one arm around his waist while his goes around my shoulders. I hold his arm in place, walking him toward the front door.
Some girl bites down on her lip when she sees us approach, giving a little wave. “Hey, Holden.”
Is she kidding? Does she not realize he’s barely conscious?
“Make yourself useful and open the door. You can try again tomorrow when he’s not comatose.”
She blinks twice before quickly opening the front door and holding it for us. “Is he okay?” she calls out after us. I don’t bother responding.
“Hot Girl Bummer” blasts from the sound system, and there are people drinking, dancing, and making out in every corner. “You owe me for this,” I mutter under my breath, ignoring the curious eyes, and head straight for the stairs. Holden holds his own weight surprisingly well all the way up. When we get to the top, I cast a glance toward the black door that leads to Thayer’s room, the one right across from where I used to sleep, and it’s just my luck that even in his drunken state Holden catches it.
“He’s different now,” he says, out of nowhere.
“We all are.” I clear my throat. “Come on. Almost there.”
We amble down the hallway lined with old photos of the estate in various states dating back to the 1800s. It burned down in the early 1900s, but my favorite photos have always been the ones before the fire. This place has so much history, and it’s always fascinated me.
Holden’s feet somehow get tangled up with mine, knocking me off balance. We both go down, him taking the brunt of the fall, me landing on top of him. His arms come around my waist, holding me to him when I try to get up.