Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
It’s an odd way to do business, but again, interesting.
“Have you ever had barbeque?”
His eyes widen at the random subject change, a low chuckle slipping past his lips. “Yeah, I’ve had barbeque.” He laughs again. “Why, have you …” he trails off. “You’ve never had barbeque.”
It’s not a question and I’m not sure why I don’t want to explain.
Probably because Bastian looks like he could use the iron a solid steak would provide and I’m a different kind of rich. My meals are strategically planned, prepped, and prepared by cultural, notable chefs. Very rarely is a meal repeated unless we specifically ask, and we do. Sometimes.
It’s the same at Greyson Elite. Based on your profile, extracurriculars of choice, and yes, even field of study, your meals are managed.
“You don’t feed the body, you feed the brain,” is our nutritionist’s favorite line.
I guess barbeque doesn’t fit the bill.
I push my hair over my shoulder and his eyes follow the movement, slowly coming back to mine.
He studies me. “You hungry?”
“No.”
He nods, glancing out the window a moment before looking back, a joint suddenly in his fingertips. “Wanna get hungry?”
Do I?
I don’t know, but what I do know is I should go home.
If my dad finds out I’m here, he won’t call and warn me back to the manor.
He’ll show up with two SUVs leading and three tailing, each loaded down with armed guards. He might shoot Bastian for fun, and by fun, I mean most likely. Of course, it won’t be a lethal shot, he’d go for the foot or calf.
I think.
Either way, Bastian would leave with a hole in his body and not one he could fill with body jewelry. So, if I’m going to risk getting busted, I might as well get high first, and that’s the only reason I open my palm, waiting for him to drop the joint into it.
It’s definitely not because I want to stay here a little longer. With him.
Chapter 9
Bass
The sky’s dope out here. The smog from the city below is not quite as thick, letting a bit of the stars show themselves, shining false hope over all of us, whisperin’ there’s more out there, and all you have to do is reach for it.
I’ve been reaching, stacking nonexistent rocks, and climbing invisible, never-ending ladders, and I get no closer to a single thing I want.
A better life for my sister.
A clue to where my shitty mother is.
A fucking purpose of my own.
Thing is, I’m a catch-22.
Poor as fuck but rich in brainpower. Careless but cautious.
I’m black-hearted, but that bitch still bleeds.
I don’t need or want a quiet little life. That shit ain’t for me, not after what I’ve done and what I enjoy doing, but I can’t figure out a way around my darker needs that leads to what I want most.
My sister happy in a home where she feels safe inside.
Never once has she brought up our mother, and I can’t say for certain if she thinks of her at all, but I hope she doesn’t since there are no happy memories that would come to her mind.
I, on the other hand, think about her all the time. Every day and every single fucking night.
There will be no sense of prevailing while she’s still out there, free and clear. She might not have physically touched us, but she’s as much of a monster as our dad was, and I’m frothing with the need for her to understand that now. I’m not a lanky, unhealthy boy afraid to speak up or act out.
I’m the shadow that lurks.
The bigger monster.
The stronger one.
Bigger and stronger or not, I still don’t know how to give my sister what she needs that allows me to take what I want from this life, and there lies one of the million fucking problems being born Bastian Bishop buried me in.
Glaring at the flickering lights in the sky, I blow smoke rings into the air, blocking out every speck.
Silence must stretch too long because, in my peripheral, Rocklin turns her head toward me.
It took some convincing to get her out of the car, but for the last fifteen minutes, we’ve been lying side by side on a blanket on my rusted hood. The joint’s gone out twice already, both of us lost in our own thoughts, and neither of us has spoken a single one out loud since we started.
Maybe because we don’t know each other or maybe because we don’t trust each other.
Probably both reasons.
I’d bet it also has something to do with the fact neither of us knows what the fuck we’re doing here.
No matter, she’s staring at me now, her lips sealed shut, so I’m thinking she’s got something on her mind. Not sure she’d have ended up out here if she didn’t.
This—I—am against her better judgment, as I should be, just like she’s against mine.