Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Nessa nods and she goes to walk away, realizing that not much more will be said here. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that bullshit in the cafeteria either,” I call behind her, feeling somewhat accomplished.
“Woah,” Maze says, pulling me down next to her by the fire. “Do you have any idea what a big deal that was? She must really feel like shit because she never apologizes to anyone.”
I watch after her as she slinks away and I realize that, despite the bullshit between us, I kind of like the girl. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a complete bitch but in a weird way, she’s my kind of people. There might just be a possibility of a friendship there after all. You know, considering she doesn’t cross any more lines. She’s strong and has balls and that’s what I like in a friend.
Maze and I sit for a while and I keep my eye on Blake. In the half an hour that we’ve been sitting down, he’s torn through three beers and with each new bottle he opens, my stomach twists. He’s a big fucking boy and I sure as hell won’t be carrying his drunk ass home, so he’s going to have to ease up soon.
I watch the fire, feeling like the wild flames are somewhat like my life. Unpredictable, deadly, and scorching hot. I zone out as Maze chats about some guy she met through Robbie McDowell and my spidey-senses instantly go on high-alert. Is she seriously that moronic to be interested in a dude that she met through our local drug dealer?
I shake my head but keep listening. It’s her life, her heart, and her body. She can do with it what she likes.
My mind goes to Slade and I realize that over the past few weeks, he’s really beginning to occupy a lot of my time. Not to mention, the insane number of drawings I have of him shoved in the back of my underwear drawer. The smart side of me keeps telling me that I draw him purely because he has a great facial structure. He’s interesting and all the sharp lines create a spectacular artwork, but the moronic side of me, the one that’s similar to Maze right now, is saying it’s because this connection between us is something real, something worth exploring.
Fuck, no. I need to hate him.
He was texting my rapist, most likely giving him updates on me, telling him all sorts of information that I’m desperate to keep hidden.
A shadow appears behind the fire and I raise my head, sucking in a breath with his wicked beauty.
There he is.
My body instantly reacts and a fire burns deep within me. What is it about him and why the hell do I feel like running straight through this damn fire to get to him? Is it insane to want to throw myself up into his arms and wrap my legs around him, refusing to let go? Why do I need to be close to him? He’s a monster.
I notice in the same second that Maze sits up a little straighter and eyes him over the fire and the big question I’ve been asking myself all night becomes very fucking clear. This friendship between me and Maze is never going to work. She’s way too interested in Slade. This whole thing has just been some sort of sham to get closer to him, and luckily for her, it was working. But not anymore. I need to cut my loss before it’s too late.
Slade’s eyes lock on mine over the fire, just as they always do and within moments, my bullshit drama with Maze is completely forgotten. She fades into the background just like everyone else and all that exists is him.
He strides toward me and I raise my eyes as he stops on the other side of the fire, keeping a good distance. There’s an odd hollowness beneath his eyes that I’ve never seen before and I watch as he raises a bottle to his lips and takes a quick swig. “Can we talk?” he asks, looking down at me on the hard ground.
I study him for a quick moment, feeling the dread seeping into me. Why does he sound so miserable? So nice?
I push up off the ground and walk around the fire hesitantly. I can’t have him being nice, that doesn’t work for me. I need his anger. I thrive on it.
“What?” I ask, looking up at him, feeling myself begin to panic.
“Can we go somewhere?”
I take a slow, deep breath, trying to put this off for as long as I can and then seeing his pained expression, I nod. He starts leading me away. “I think you and me got off on the wrong foot.”
I stop walking, not nearly ready for him to wave the white flag. Desperation to hold onto the anger pulses through me and I find myself looking up at him in a panic. “Please, don’t.”