Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 175455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 877(@200wpm)___ 702(@250wpm)___ 585(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 175455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 877(@200wpm)___ 702(@250wpm)___ 585(@300wpm)
I barely make it inside the door and she comes at me, her eyes wide with excitement. “You didn’t tell me you were seein’ Carter Mahoney. How in the world did that happen? Especially with all this Jake business. They’re teammates.”
“I know what they are,” I mutter. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Mom. Carter and I are not a thing. He’s an asshole.”
“Now, Zoey, that boy just brought you soup because you were home sick,” she says, her tone skeptical, verging on lecturing. “He doesn’t seem like an asshole to me. I think maybe you’re bein’ a touch judgmental. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.”
Of course she does. Because why ask if I have a legitimate reason for feeling this way about him when she can just hope and pray I’m dating him instead? My mother is the physical embodiment of blissful ignorance, and while usually I can handle it, right now it’s too much.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, heading into the kitchen and grabbing my notes. I glance at them, seeing lines of words, but I fold the paper and shove it in my pocket without so much as skimming them.
Mom is right on my heels. “I think you should give him a chance, Zoey. Not all boys are bad. And he wants to take you out to Porter’s. Wouldn’t that be so nice? Just imagine the look on Betsy’s face after all those snide comments she made about you and Jake.”
“I’m not interested in him, all right? Let’s drop it.”
“But why?” she asks, following me. “He’s handsome and popular, he comes from a great family, and he seems to really like you. Maybe if people see he’s takin’ your side, they’ll stop givin’ us all such a hard time about your dust-up with Jake.”
She is so transparent. I hate that she cares so much what other people think that she’s willing to turn a blind eye to my problems if Carter can make them all go away. As a kid, I followed in her footsteps and worried endlessly over what other people thought of me, too. As I’ve grown up, I realized that putting the opinions of others in such high regard is a shortcut to misery, and I don’t want to take that path. My mom never found her way to that conclusion.
If she’s going to campaign for him all night, I’m not going to sit here and listen to it. Instead of going in to the table to eat now that Hank’s home and dinner is ready, I head for the stairs.
“Where are you goin’?” my mom calls after me.
“To my room. I’m not hungry. I’m gonna take a nap.”
Since I’ve been “sick” she lets me go without argument, but I suspect this will come up again. It’s so uncomfortable to even think about what happened yesterday, so I really don’t want to have to tell her, but I might have to if she keeps pushing me at Carter.
He’s a peculiar guy, and his abnormality does stir an academic interest within me, but he’s also at such a clear social advantage that he’s legitimately dangerous. Carter thinks he’s above the law. He has money, talent, popularity, and the carefully constructed façade of an all-American golden boy. He has it all, so he can do as he pleases. Case in point, I haven’t done a damn thing wrong, yet I’ve been targeted, bullied, and abused three times now—and that was for messing with Carter’s best wide receiver, not Carter himself.
When I get to my room, I close my door and curl up in bed. I dig Carter’s notes out of my pocket and read them. The first line is, “Of course I’m not really going to take notes for you, but while Mr. Hassenfeld is yammering on and you’re hiding out at home like a coward, I thought I’d share with you the dream I had last night.”
Oh, boy.
I shouldn’t keep reading. It’s going to be stressful, but it might also be evidence. Is he so cocky he would leave me a handwritten page full of threats? If so, I’m definitely hanging onto this. This could be gold.
Of course that’s not what it is, but it is filthy. It’s not the confession I hoped for, it’s not even a depiction of the rape he suggested interest in yesterday, it’s just pure filth. He talks about nibbling on my breasts and eating me out until I come, crying out his name. He talks about me touching him and tasting him again (as if I did it willingly the first time). He talks about fucking me, but he makes no mention of force—nothing that would stick, anyway. Nothing some people wouldn’t be into anyway.
There’s heat beneath my skin and an uncomfortable sexual stirring inside me as I read his filthy words. They’re explicit, so I guess that’s not insane, but they come from him. They depict sex between the two of us, and after what he did, that makes it so much more perverse.