Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 224(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 224(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
What makes you think I’d hate that? I’ve read Gatsby and his other work. My favorite is Beautiful and Damned.
Whoa, you’re full of surprises.
Just because I write trashy action thrillers doesn’t mean I’m a complete caveman.
I didn’t mean that. I hope you don’t think I’m putting you down. I can only dream of selling ten million copies of a book series and having books translated into all those languages. Hell, and the movies, the TV series.
Relax, Zoey. I was only kissing.
Anyway, I am a caveman when it comes to her. Too many dishonorable thoughts are dominating my mind for me to think of myself as civilized. I’m not a beast or an animal. I’ve always been an operator who works cleanly, but Zoey makes me question all that. With her, I might as well be a lion, beating away all my rivals, killing if necessary to claim my prize—to claim her.
Kissing? Kissing who?
I smirk, reading my last message. Damn autocorrect. I’m not much of a kisser. Kidding—that I can do.
I’m getting carried away, only realizing after sending that this message is veering into inappropriate territory. I shouldn’t be talking about kissing or not kissing with her.
Not much of a kisser? Really? I thought women would throw themselves at you at those book launches. Or on tour. Or when you’re gallivanting around Europe for research.
Why do you care? Are you jealous?
I don’t send the message, instead stare at it. If my previous message hinted at intimacy, this would be an outright declaration… of war against Mallory, as if she needs more reason to hate, resent, or blame me.
Deleting the message, I type a new one.
I’ve had opportunities, but I prefer to focus on my work.
I didn’t realize they were mutually exclusive…
Maybe having a boyfriend is easier when you’re a literary writer.
This is a clumsy attempt to find out if she’s taken. If she tells me she does have a boyfriend, that ends this cleanly. Or it should, unless my hunger won’t quit, unless I become savage when seeing them in public, blacking out as the need takes over, as I rush them and roar, “She’s mine. Get away from her. She belongs to me.”
No, I focus on my work too. And college. Mom busted her ass to save enough, so I owe it to her to try my best.
I swallow, thinking of lies—the necessity of them and hating them, but that’s Mallory’s choice.
Any man would be lucky to have you.
It’s like I’m addicted to crossing lines, addicted to guiding us to intimate places.
Really? You think so?
I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, picturing Luke kneeling in the dirt with his rifle in his hands and blood streaked across his face. He was bleeding but fighting on like the warrior he was until he couldn’t fight anymore.
“If anything happens to me—”
“Shut up. You’re going to be fine.”
“You have to promise, Jax. You’ll take care of Mallory. You’ll take care of Zoey.”
By take care, I don’t think he meant for me to become obsessed with her. One look has made me a prisoner, but I don’t want to be free.
Opening my eyes, I look at the message. There’s so much I could tell her in response. She’s gorgeous and has a charismatic and magnetic personality. She’s smoking hot, even if she’s not, whatever that term is… traditionally attractive.
She’s not the sort of woman you see on billboards. That makes her more beautiful to me, with her curves, real features, reddening cheeks, and alluring dimples. She’s strong, mature, and capable.
I could say so much more, but the memory of Luke keeps playing. He stared up at me as we carried him to the helicopter, the medic roaring, the blades of the chopper only slowing, not stopping, as we ran toward it. His eyes flickered open and closed, but the message was clear. He was telling me to keep my promise, and here I am, casually breaking it.
I turn my phone facedown and promise myself that’s the last text we ever exchange. If they need help, I’ll provide it, but I can’t keep doing this. I’ve never been a traitor, not to my brothers-in-arms, my country, or my best friend.
Standing, I leave the room, or maybe flee is the right word. I’m running away from my cell, from more texting. I change into my jogging gear and pull on my sneakers. I leave my apartment, headphones blasting heavy metal, the lyrics lost to me, the music so loud I can’t hear the cars, people, or even my thoughts. One step, then another, then another.
That’s it. It’s all I can think about, or I’ll go insane—more insane—with dreams of Zoey.
CHAPTER 5
Zoey
“Are you okay?” Natasha whispers, looking at me over the library desk.
We’re sitting on opposite sides after our Victorian literature class. Natasha has long black, straightened hair and often wears about a dozen bracelets and bangles. She has a natural hippy-writer look and always smiles when I say that.