Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 139803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 699(@200wpm)___ 559(@250wpm)___ 466(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 699(@200wpm)___ 559(@250wpm)___ 466(@300wpm)
He arched an eyebrow at me as if I were the crazy one. “You’re Meghan Fallows, right? M-e-g-h-a-n?” he asked, spelling my name out.
I nodded jerkily, suddenly wanting away. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up a Twitter post. I stared at the post in horror as my throat closed up with panic.
It was a picture of me during my freshman year beneath the disgusting fucker that raped me. Beneath it was my dorm room building and number as well as letting them know I was available for all kinds of fun.
I felt like throwing up. This wasn’t happening.
It had thousands of retweets and likes.
What sick individual would even take this fucking picture?
I jumped up from the bleachers and rushed away, my feet pounding loudly down the steel. When did that picture get taken? How the fuck did someone even get their hands on that picture? And who the fuck would even hold on to something like that?
Tears poured down my face. I felt like I was in a nightmare.
“Meghan!” Julian shouted from the field. I heard his coaches yelling at him to get his ass back on the field, but obviously, he wasn’t listening.
And I wasn’t stopping. I wanted away.
“Fucking hell, woman, stop running!” Julian barked from behind me.
Suddenly, his arms wrapped around my waist, and we stumbled. He quickly flipped us over so he was beneath me as we hit the asphalt beneath us. Then, just as quickly, he rolled us over so I was beneath him. “What in the fuck is going on?” he demanded to know. Panicked, blue eyes roamed over my face. “Why are you crying, baby?”
“Look at your Twitter,” I choked out, the tears not stopping.
“What the fuck does Twitter have to do with anything?” He tenderly gripped my face in his hands. “Baby, why the fuck are you crying? Who the fuck hurt you?” He looked like he was barely holding himself together, anger flickering in his blue eyes.
“Please just look at your Twitter,” I whimpered.
He heaved an aggravated sigh, but I couldn’t fucking say this out loud. I just couldn’t. “Babe, my phone is in the locker room. Give me your phone,” he instructed.
I pulled my phone out of my sports bra and silently handed it to him. I watched as he unlocked my phone and pulled up my Twitter account.
“What the fuck?!” he roared as he jumped up to his feet, rage twisting his features. “Who the fuck did this?!”
I rolled onto my hands and knees as nausea rose fast in my throat. I gagged a couple of times, and Julian dropped my phone on the ground as he knelt beside me, holding my hair back as I emptied my stomach. He rubbed my back and whispered soothing words to me.
“I want to go home,” I whispered once I was finished throwing up.
Silently, Julian grabbed my phone and lifted me to his chest, carrying me back towards the game. I shook my head. “Julian, no, please. Everyone has seen the tweet.”
“Shh, baby,” he soothed as he pressed his lips to my forehead. I groaned as more nausea swirled. “I’ll fucking hospitalize someone if they dare come up to you.”
“They already did,” I told him as I thought about the guy in the bleachers. “Oh, God. I’m going to throw up again.”
Julian quickly set me on my feet and using his massive body, he blocked everyone’s view of me as I threw up again. “Babe, do you normally get sick when you’re this upset?” he asked me once I was done emptying my stomach again.
I shook my head. “Julian, I just want to go home,” I told him, my stomach still churning. “I don’t feel good.”
“Alright. I’ll take you home,” he said softly as he lifted me back up in his arms.
“The game—"
The look he shot me could have frozen boiling water. “Fuck the game. You’re more important. Besides, I need to get this shit cleared up, too. And when I figure out who the fuck put that shit on Twitter, I swear, I will break every single one of their fucking fingers.”
I leaned my head on his shoulder pads as I draped my arms over his shoulders. “Your coaches are going to be so pissed.”
He shrugged. “They’ll kick my ass at practice on Monday. I’m not worried about it.” He pressed his lips to my forehead. “You’re more important. You come before everything else, baby.”
I couldn’t help that I swooned. The fact that he was choosing me, making sure I knew I had him in my corner, meant more than he would ever know.
“That’s your career on the line,” I reminded him.
He scoffed. “My career is fine, babe. Don’t worry about it.”
I felt vomit rise in my throat. I slapped my hand on his shoulder pads to warn him, afraid if I opened my mouth, I’d spew all over him.