Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
He tenses and then relaxes against me, holding me as tight as I’m holding him.
Solidarity.
The things she forced on us.
The things we allowed.
The past.
Present.
Future.
And, of course, MB is standing right there, probably wondering what the hell silent conversation is going on, but I don’t want to shock her, nor do I want to embarrass Quinn. So I just hold him the way he holds me, not giving a shit who sees us.
What’s the worst that could happen over what already has?
“You know…” Quinn sounds like he’s smiling as we hug. “I really wish you were into dudes too.”
I burst out laughing and shove him away. “You’d be the only prick for me.”
He touches his chest with his hand. “Thanks, bro. I really felt that in here.” He taps his chest and keeps laughing while MB looks between us like she’s about ready to get a story about us.
Nope. Not the time.
The bell rings.
“Ah, back to hell.” Quinn winks at MB. “Want me to take you to class, or do you need to stay and chat.
MB is silent, and then she looks from me to Quinn. “Are you into guys?”
In typical Quinn finesse, which makes me want to punch him in the throat, by the way, he grabs her and pulls her against him, his mouth inches from hers. “I’m into you.”
“I’m killing you after class,” I mutter. “Stop messing with her head.”
“She likes to be messy, I think.” He smirks over at me. “Be gentle.”
“He’s never gentle,” MB says in my defense, holding her head high.
“Yeah.” Quinn nods. “I’m aware.”
Shit.
“Go.” I roll my eyes as he releases her and leaves the men’s bathroom. “And Quinn?”
He looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Dicks forever, you bastard, not like I forgot.”
“You’re the dick.” I point out.
“Sureeeee,” he calls and then leaves us alone.
“We should, um…” I point toward the door. “Go to class.”
MB’s eyes narrow. “Will you tell me the story later? Promise?”
“What story?” I play dumb.
She glares. “You and your little dick club, will you tell me later?”
I sigh as the warning bell goes off. “It doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“I’ve never had one either. I think I can deal.”
My heart instantly clenches. “Yeah, just go to class, and forget about it until we get back home, all right?”
She nods. “Are you really okay?”
“I will be.” I start walking toward the door and open it. “Besides, I have a really cool roommate that likes to eat quesadillas late at night, so I think I’ll make it because, you know, cheese.”
“Solves everything.” She hangs her head like she’s almost sad this moment’s over.
I pull her in for a quick hug. I want to kiss her so badly; instead, I just hold her for a brief few seconds and let her go, then, in a dumbass move, kiss the top of her head before bolting.
Her soft gasp says it all.
I want to turn and run toward her.
Instead, I run toward class as if she isn’t important even though we’ll be in the same one; I want to protect her and to selfishly protect my past.
My secrets haunt me.
And it’s funny, I’ve had this perfect life, hers has sucked, and I’m still one hundred percent sure that if she really knew, she’d stay away from me, from both me and Quinn.
Because history always has a way of repeating itself.
Why does he have to like her too?
I ask myself this all the way to my desk, then I see her sit across the room and shake my head, my answer obvious.
Because how could he not?
She’s like sunshine despite being born in the darkness, and when you’re still there, waiting for salvation, and the universe gives you this bright light—you’ll do anything to take it.
She’s my light.
And I think; unfortunately, she’s his as well.
Shit.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mary-Belle
I feel like I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Then again, I’d like to think I’m more intuitive than most. It’s a self-preservation thing when it comes to protecting myself and making sure I stay safe.
And something about Quinn and Ambrose’s interaction has me wondering what went down between them and why that horrible girl set Ambrose off into a near nervous breakdown.
I think about it all day.
I’m in English class when I see her again. She’s up front with my teacher. Mr. Decker.
The girl is smiling at everyone like she’s just won prom queen or something. I glare.
I don’t like her.
I don’t respect her.
And I kind of want to stab her with my pencil. But I keep my posture calm when all I want to do is storm toward her, pull her hair, and see how many clumps I can collect.
Maybe I’ll make her a nice hair-filled necklace?
Wouldn’t that be so sweet of me?
Like charity.
I clutch my pen in my hand and stare down at my English book in an attempt not to commit murder and go to prison before college.