Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
“The cops wanted to know why I came to see you.”
Cops. That was the last thing I wanted to hear. My stomach drops, as does my gaze and I pick under my nails to distract myself.
“How would they even know?” I ask him without thinking, but if I’d just let it sink in for one second, I’d know better. Everyone here is crooked, everyone knows everything. It was the only good advice my mother ever gave me. If you keep that in mind, you’ll be all right.
“Ignore me,” I tell him absently and rub the tiredness from my eyes as I walk to the sofa. I plunk back down into my cozy seat and pull the throw blanket around me again.
When I peek up at Sebastian, he’s eyeing me with a look I can’t place. “What did you tell them?” I ask him to get the attention away from me.
“Well, I had to tell a white lie.”
“What did you say?” I whisper and fight off the yawn that threatens.
“I told them you meant something to me and I was just checking in on you.”
It’s quiet for a moment as I take in his words. I have to remind myself of what he said. Me meaning anything to him is a white lie. The thought makes my fingers ball into a fist under the blanket.
“Okay,” is all I give him as I sit there, with my neck craned so I can stare up at him as he stands in front of me.
“And now they think we may be a thing.” His eyes assess me, and if I wasn’t so tired, I would blush, practically ignite like I’ve done before. But right now, all I can think is how he said it was a white lie.
I almost ask him what a white lie means, so he can tell me to my face in blunt terms that I don’t mean anything to him. Instead, I just ignore it all and focus on a pounding ache that grows in my temple.
“What’s in that stuff you gave me?” I ask him a question that’s been nagging at the back of my head.
“Nothing serious.” His forehead creases as he answers me. “Why?”
“It feels serious to me,” I tell him. although my heart beats rapidly, begging me not to push him away with my insanity.
The moment passes, and with the silence, the tension grows.
“What happened?” he asks me. “Are you sick?” The concern in his voice is so genuine that I nearly tell him to be careful, that everyone will see that I mean something to him. But the spite and jabs from his white lie comment mean nothing to me right now.
He’s here. He’s listening to me. Whether he realizes it or not, I know I mean something to him. So, I couldn’t care less if that’s what the cops think. I couldn’t care less about people running their mouths or any of that right now.
There’s only one thing haunting me at this moment.
“I’m just…” I trail off and swallow thickly, burying the words in my throat.
“When’s the last time you took it?” he pushes for more information as he takes the seat next to me, making the old sofa groan with his weight. He sits closer to me than I sat to him last time. He’s so close, I can still feel that heat that lingers on his shirt from the summer sun.
“I only took it the one night.” I look up into his steely blue eyes and watch the grey flecks mesmerize me as I add, “The night I texted you.”
“You’re supposed to take it every night, Chlo. It doesn’t stay in your system for long.”
“Are you sure?” I ask him quickly. “Because it feels like it’s still in my system.”
The sofa protests as I readjust in my seat to face him more and he asks, “Have you been sleeping?”
I only nod with a small frown gracing my lips as my chest tightens with worry. “I don’t want to though,” I whisper the confession.
“Chlo,” he scolds me, immediately running the middle finger and thumb of his right hand down his temples. His large hand covers his eyes as he does it.
“Don’t do that,” I bite back, not hiding the sadness and disappointment at his reaction. “I’m not a child and I’m not okay.” Although my voice wavers, I say the words as strongly as I can.
He lets out a heavy breath as his hand drops to his side and my eyes plead with him to understand.
“I’m afraid. I’m dreaming these things...” I gulp down the confession and settle on a simple truth as I conclude, “and it’s not okay. I think it’s what you gave me.”
“You think the sweets has something to do with what you’re dreaming about?” he asks me, and I can only nod with a tension in my stomach that threatens to make me sick. “Tell me,” he says, and his command is soft and comforting. As if confiding in him will make it all go away. “Tell me what’s got you worked up like this.”