Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
But he still heard me.
And I can’t stop staring at him. At his face.
His bruises look less angry than they did two nights ago. They’re still there and still as vicious but they don’t look as alive as they did before. As throbbing and painful.
Thank God.
He runs his eyes over my face as well. “You were getting a little out of control.”
“I wasn’t.”
I so was.
I still am.
My breaths are all choppy. And my eyes are wide like saucers and I’m definitely all flushed and pink.
“You were about to go all emo on me.”
“It’s called expressing emotions.”
“You’re not going to list a hundred different synonyms of it now, are you?”
“I —”
“Because I really didn’t order an English teacher.”
Yeah, he ordered a stripper.
The complete opposite of the English teacher, certified logophile that I am.
Blushing even more, I swallow. “You could’ve just replied to my text.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Not a fan of texting.”
“Or just called.”
“Not a fan of calling either.”
I wonder if like texts, he prefers phone sex over simple, friendly calling.
Knowing him, he probably does.
And I admit that I was being sarcastic in the texts before, but I know that that’s what every girl wants: to be phone-sexed by Reign Davidson.
Who’s now taking in my room.
As if getting reacquainted with it.
My bedroom hasn’t changed much since he was here last. I’m just as averagely messy and a staunch lover of pink as I was before. And it’s all there for him to see in my scattered textbooks and strewn-about clothes and pink pens.
He opens a notebook, flicks through the pages; picks up a bundle of study cards and holds them up to me, with a quirk of an eyebrow.
“Uh, it’s for school,” I reply, feeling slightly breathless at his arrogant expression. “I have exams in a few weeks. Finals.”
And isn’t that wonderful?
My time at St. Mary’s is approaching its end and God, I could die with happiness.
“Good,” he says and I know he means it.
It’s there in his biting tone and pulsing jaw. He really hates that school for me.
I tamp down a rush of butterflies enough to say, “I mean, I won’t be going to my dream school but I can’t wait to get out of there.”
Even though I’ll be going to community college instead of NYU, I really can’t.
I’m just looking forward to no more curfews and rules and uniforms and absolutely no classes with barred windows. I will also be moving back to the manor and commuting to classes from here.
Although that’s slightly less appealing, given how my parents are, but still.
“You might.”
“I might what?”
“Still go to your dream school.”
“NYU?”
“That is your dream school, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but remember I told you that I can’t go?” I sigh. “They don’t accept reform school students and I sure as hell don’t have the money to go if they did accept me anyway.”
He gives me an inscrutable look that I think is weird.
But before I can dwell on it, he breaks my gaze and looks over my shoulder.
“Still the only non-pink thing in your room,” he murmurs, his eyes riveted on something.
I don’t have to turn around to know exactly what he’s staring at.
It’s my diary.
It sits in the middle of my pink bed much like it did two years ago; I was writing in it before I decided to text him.
He brings his eyes back to me, all shiny and dark. “Still call it Bandit?”
I knew he was going to ask me that.
I knew it.
But still I wasn’t prepared for the pounding of my heart at his question. And also embarrassment.
This strange pinch in my chest, because I don’t.
I don’t call my diary by that name, not anymore.
If he’d asked me this two days ago, I would’ve bragged about it. I would’ve happily told him that no, I’m not that stupid anymore. I am plenty stupid but not that stupid.
But now, tonight, I don’t want him to know.
I don’t want to tell him.
But somehow he already knows. “Nah, you wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
His gaze is penetrating. “Because you probably figured it out.”
I know what ‘it’ is but I still ask, “Figured what out?”
“That some bad things can’t be reformed. Some bad things have no good in them. They stay bad forever.”
I ache now.
Or rather I ache more than I already did.
Before he so suddenly came here.
And I can’t help but ask, “Where are you staying?”
He frowns at the sudden change of subject.
“I know you aren’t staying at the manor,” I say.
“Why,” he asks instead, “you planning to stalk me too?”
“Why are you staying at a motel?”
Despite my perpetual reluctance to bring up the past, I remember that I’d used to think this a lot. Way back when I’d first met him. I used to wonder why he wouldn’t come home. I’d wait for him even. I’d…
No, Echo.
No.
Don’t go there. Not that far in the past.