Total pages in book: 165
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
“Enough!” I yell.
For God’s sake. I grit my teeth, barreling past them and stepping over their bodies.
But hands grab my legs, and I barely have time to let out a scream before I’m falling backward and into waiting arms.
“Trace!” I yell, not even having to look to see who the culprit is. Dallas isn’t the playful one, so I know it’s not him.
Fingers dig into my stomach, and I hold back my laugh, kicking and squirming.
“Stop!” I growl as my brother tickles. “I’m not in the mood.”
“You got sleep,” Trace fires back. “I didn’t get sleep.”
Dallas pushes us off, clutches his towel closed, and disappears back into the bathroom, slamming the door.
“Come on.” I fight Trace’s hold, the scruff on his cheek stabbing my ear. “Coffee first. Please.”
He’s got this thing about moody people. People like Macon and Dallas. People like me. He purposely pokes the bear and doesn’t know when to stop.
We fight, and I kick, hitting the wall instead of him, the plaster cracking and a nice, round dent appearing where there wasn’t one before.
I used to feel bad, but the walls are covered in dents and holes from years of six Jaeger kids. Macon, the oldest and head of the house, won’t know the difference.
“Let me go!” I bark and elbow him in the gut.
His hold relaxes, and I scramble out of his arms, crawling and climbing to my feet, escaping.
But I hear his voice behind me. “Your turn to wash the bedding!”
I stop and turn my head, his short, black hair sticking up all over the place, and his green eyes showing no hint that he’d had a sleepless night like he claims.
“I’m not touching your sheets,” I tell him. “Put them in the washer yourself.”
He bats his eyelashes, and I let out a quiet sigh. If I don’t do his sheets, they won’t get done. And why do I care? No idea.
“Don’t make me touch your sheets,” I plead.
But he just blinks up at me. “Coffee first,” he says. “Coffee will help you feel better about it.”
Whatever. I storm off, knowing I’ll do it and knowing that he knows I’ll do it.
I’m allowed to pout for a little while, though. If our parents were here, I might not feel obligated to give in to him, but Trace wasn’t much older than me when we were orphaned. He thinks a woman will fill that void that not having a mom has left in him.
I step into the kitchen, the chipped blue and pink stucco walls shining with the light coming from the rusted old chandelier over the kitchen table. The shutters over the sink spread open, the white grate keeping out intruders, but letting in the smell and sound of the rain.
Macon leans against the stove, grease stains on his gray T-shirt and the leather peeling on the front of his steel-toe boots. He dries his hands and tightens the thin, leather strap, identical to mine, around his wrist.
I walk for the Moka Pot. “Morning.”
“It’s almost noon.” I hear him sip his coffee. “You’d never know I have five siblings with all the shit you all make me do around here by myself.”
I hood my eyes, bracing myself as I pull the coffee beans out of the cabinet.
It’s not noon. It’s barely ten, and it’s Saturday. “Coffee first, please,” I say.
He’s in a mood, probably been up since five a.m. and had time to self-talk himself into a nice little tizzy that we were the most ungrateful lot. Macon needs sex. Lots of it.
I pick up the pot but feel it’s already full. Ugh, thank you. He brewed another pot.
I pour myself a cup and walk to the table, taking a seat opposite him. “I was at school late,” I tell him, taking my first sip. “I guess the last few months of senior year aren’t for relaxing after all.”
“No, not for relaxing,” Macon says, “any more than it’s necessary to apply to Dartmouth when you’re already going to Florida State.”
I shoot my eyes up.
He reaches over the table, to the stack of bills waiting to be paid in the napkin holder, and plucks out a white envelope, tossing it to me.
I grab it, flipping it over to see the Dartmouth return address in the corner. The envelope is ripped open, and I can feel the letter inside.
“Congratulations,” he tells me before I have a chance to read the letter.
I dart my gaze up to him again as I dig inside the envelope. “You opened my mail?”
But I don’t wait for a response. Unfolding the piece of paper, I don’t know if he’s screwing with me, or if I really got in. My heart pounds as I start reading, taking in one word after the other, holding my breath for the shoe to drop.
It doesn’t. I read the first couple of sentences over and over, reality slowly coming into view.