Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Time moves slow, though.
It creeps over me like grains of sand.
I’m not sure how much time goes by, but eventually, I see a car heading toward the house. My body tenses as I prepare for what’s to come.
It’s not the car I expected, however.
Nope.
It’s yet another police officer called to the scene to help disperse the crowd of underage drinkers.
Luckily, I’m not one of them, or I’d be in the back of one of the cruisers on the way to the precinct.
The car slows down and parks right in front of where I stand.
Once the officer is out, I expect him to head around back, but instead, he looks over at the officer a few feet away from me and heads in his direction.
I watch them from where I stand. They speak for a minute, both glancing in my direction every other word. They can’t be changing their minds about taking me downtown, right? The two men walk in my direction, and my back straightens.
Maybe I’m less Sullivan and more Yamaguchi. Fuck. I knew better than to celebrate my freedom prematurely. Coach always warns about that. It’s not over until it’s over, he shouts every half.
Still, I’d be shocked if they arrest me, since the girl involved threatened to press her own charges if her attacker goes after me.
The officer removes his cap, holding it between two white-knuckled hands. “Dane Sinclair?”
“Yeah.”
I wait for him to speak.
And when he does, I know my life will never be the same.
2
JOSIE
Thirteen years later . . .
The early morning sunlight beats down on me from above. I squint my eyes, fighting the brightness, along with the groan that’s dying to release. The last thing I need is for Mom to wake up. I’m not even past the front door, but the walls are thin and she’s a light sleeper.
Today will suck.
Well, not necessarily.
If Mom’s still asleep, I’ll probably slip in unnoticed. That would be ideal. Then I’ll be able to catch some sleep for a few hours. Which I need. Desperately. It’s a well-known scientific fact that I turn into a gremlin when tired.
I tiptoe up the small set of stairs to the door. The ancient lock struggles to accept my key. I cringe, hoping it doesn’t choose today to act up again.
Please be quiet. Please.
No such luck.
The second I twist the lock, the metal screeches loud enough to resurrect the dead. I slam my eyes shut, resisting the urge to bang my head against a wall. The squeak has nothing on the wood as it scratches the floor after I crack the door open.
I must’ve betrayed my country in a previous life.
Unless my penny-pinching mom is sleeping with the TV on full blast at six in the morning, there’s no way she won’t wake up from the noise.
The moment I step past the front mat, I know my prayers have gone unanswered. Mom stands utterly still in the center of the living room, not even turning to greet me. It’s just over seventy-five degrees in here, but she’s still in her flimsy pajamas, her eyes fixed on the old clock above the broken fireplace mantel.
Finally—finally—she turns to me, and I wish she never did.
Boy, does she look pissed.
It feels like the temperature rises ten degrees in an instant. I wish she’d let us use the air conditioner. We’re better off financially than we used to be, but that single-mom, every-dollar-counts mentality has never left her.
Well, fuck.
We’re silent as we face each other, neither of us daring to speak first.
I force out a breath, knowing I can’t smile my way out of this one. “Morning, Mom.”
“Where the hell were you?”
Chills race down my spine. I’ve never heard her speak this loudly—and certainly not at this hour. I wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors could hear her. I pull my shoulders back, readying myself for the tongue-lashing I’m about to get.
“Mom—”
“Don’t Mom me. I asked you a question.”
And just like that, Mom reminds me that, in her eyes, I’m a constant disappointment.
“I’m twenty-two years old—”
Her hand flies up, and the words I’m about to say die on my tongue.
“Stop right there, young lady. I don’t care if you are twenty-two or thirty-two. This is my house. My rules are law, and coming home at six o’clock in the morning is not allowed in my home.”
For the millionth time since I moved back home, I curse the job market. This is the hardest part of this setup. In college, I got used to being on my own—not having a curfew or my mother to track my every move.
“You knew the rules when you decided to move back in. Right?” she asks, but she knows I know the answer.
We’ve had this conversation many times. Practically once a week. But Mom is the queen of rhetorical questions.
“I mean, as soon as I find a job, I won’t be able to go out anymore, so I just figured . . .”