Series: Torn and Bound Duet Series by K. Webster
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Okay,” she says, standing. “Just keep in mind, invites like these don’t come around often…” In other words, if you don’t show up, consider yourself out.
“I know,” I tell her, attempting to backtrack. “I’ll try.”
She huffs and then disappears, and I bring my attention back to my paper. I’m lost in concentration when Brayden drops into the seat next to me.
“Table’s taken,” I say, quickly glancing at him long enough to glare, so if he doesn’t get my point—to go somewhere else—he’ll understand by my facial expression.
“I know, by us.”
“No, by me,” I say slowly, continuing to type. “There are fifty tables in here. Find another one.”
“Would be hard for you to tutor me if I’m sitting at another table,” he quips.
It takes a second for his words to sink in, but once they do, my fingers freeze in place.
Athlete on academic probation.
Freaking Ashton.
I grab my phone and shoot him a quick text.
Me: Foot rub? More like a full body massage! And not just one, several.
I wait a second for him to respond, but of course he doesn’t. Damn wuss. He’s probably hiding out in his room playing his video games and eating the Sour Patch Kids I gave him. I make a mental note to hide all his candy from him.
Me: Next time we hang out the only thing you’re getting from me is fruit.
“Did your bestie not tell you?” Brayden smirks, leaning closer to me. “He was a little busy eye-fucking his new roommate.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” I say with a sigh, slamming my laptop closed a little too hard. “What subjects do you need help with?”
“English II and American History.”
“Aren’t you a senior?” I snort. “Those are lower level classes.”
“Yeah, I suck at school,” he says dryly. “But you already knew that since you’ve been there when I buy answers from Ashton.”
“So, why aren’t you buying them now?” Not that I agree with him cheating, but he clearly doesn’t mind doing it. Why change up his plays this late in the game?
“The new meddling dick of a coach caught me buying and threatened to rat me out, leaving me no choice but to get help. Ashton volunteered you.”
Of. Fucking. Course. He. Did.
I type out another text, even though I know he’s not going to respond.
Me: Forget fruit, your ass is getting vegetables from now on!
“Look,” Brayden says, encroaching on my personal space. “I was supposed to give Ashton two hundred bucks for the answers. How about I slide it your way instead, you can pull up the answers off the main server I know the tutors have access to, and I’ll throw in dinner.”
He shoots me a wink, and I fake gag, making him roll his eyes.
“One,” I tell him slowly so he hears me. “Don’t ever wink like that again. You look even more like a douche than you already do. Two, I would rather starve to death than go to dinner with you. And three, if you don’t take back everything you just said about asking me to help you cheat, I’m going to get up and walk away, and you’re going to fail. Then, you can kiss your NHL dreams goodbye because they won’t even know you exist when you’re sitting on the bench because you can’t play.”
My phone vibrates against the desk and I quickly snatch it up and hit answer, ready to bitch Ashton out for this shit. But when the feminine, whiny voice comes through, I do a double take at the caller ID.
Damn it! I just answered my mom’s call. I’m completely blaming this on Ashton.
“Mia Lynn, are you there?” she says. “Hello? Mia, I’m a busy woman and—”
“Yes, Mom,” I say, cutting her off. “Give me a second.”
She huffs over the phone, mumbling something I block out.
“I need to take this,” I say to Brayden. “When I get back, either be ready to work or be gone.”
Without waiting for him to respond, I walk to the back of the tutoring center and out the back door, so I can talk above a whisper.
“Mother,” I say once I’m outside. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”
“Mia, how many times do I have to tell you that sarcasm is not a positive quality?”
“Hello, Mother,” I say again, my voice extra peppy. “How are you?”
“Slightly better,” she says. “I’m calling because you still haven’t responded to any of my invites and I need to make proper arrangements. The deal was you could go to school where you wanted as long as you understood that when we need you here you come. You’ve been in Michigan since June and haven’t come home once. You missed several charity galas, an awards show, and my birthday. If this is the way it’s going to be, we’re going to have to rethink you going to school out of state. I can’t have my only daughter refusing to come home. It looks bad.”