Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I thought I’d closed the old chapter of my life.
But four days in, it seems we’re already blowing the book wide open—or are we penning a surprise sequel? Either way, I’m counting down the hours until I can find out what comes next.
7
Stassi
It takes me a full minute to realize where I am.
As the cottage cheese ceiling above me comes into focus, I realize the rust-colored water stains on it are different than the ones in my bedroom.
Then I realize the mattress is a whole lot softer than I’m used to.
The covers feel different too—lighter, airier.
Blinking, I sit up and notice the plethora of sealed cardboard boxes.
Leaning against the wall is a wooden case filled with a collection of hockey pucks and some old Panthers memorabilia.
Alec …
It all comes crashing back. The drinks. The Uber ride. The stupid broken lock. The panic of having nowhere to stay. And Alec, my knight in shining armor, coming to the rescue, saying I could sleep on his couch—only that’s not what I did.
I slept with Alec Mansfield.
Who is … gone?
But that’s exactly something he’d do—deposit his seed then jet off before the bed can get too warm.
God. I hate him. And I’m an idiot.
“Alec?” I call out. “You home?”
I scan my dim surroundings. He’s not in bed. Not anywhere in the room—unless he’s hiding in one of the boxes. Knowing how fond he was of pulling cruel, immature jokes on me, I can’t even put that past him.
I listen for footfalls, shifting floorboards outside the room. Nothing. And I doubt someone like Alec, big old ego-from-hell Alec, is downstairs making me coffee and eggs and bacon.
I inhale deeply, just to make sure, exhaling without so much as a whiff of breakfast being prepared. All that fills my lungs is the faded scent of soap, which means he probably got ready and left for work while I was sleeping.
The fact that he couldn’t be bothered to say goodbye speaks volumes.
What the hell was I thinking?
Why didn’t I just call my parents to pick me up and stay at their place?
Why didn’t I call Tenley?
Had I not swallowed my pride and taken the easiest way out of my problem, none of this would’ve happened.
Then I think of the way Alec had kissed me, the way he’d electrified my body in ways I didn’t know it was capable of—and all those prickles from last night come back in full force, making me shiver with the thrill of it.
It was good, better, even than sex with Jonathan, which rarely disappointed.
Sex with Mason had been good too—mature, the romantic, rose petals on the bed, wine and firelight kind of sex. It was a bit over the top, but it still felt special even if it wasn’t mind-blowing.
But until now, I’ve never known sex like this. I didn’t know I could come so many times in one night. My body aches, but in a delicious sort of way. This was everything—raw, emotional, scorching hot.
If only it hadn’t been with Mr. Yours Cruelly, of all people.
My heart jams in my throat as I think of Cooper and Aidan.
Then I think of Alec, and that wicked gaze he fixed on me as he plunged inside me, again … and again. Another shiver of excitement starts to course its way through my nerves, but I hug myself, stifling it.
This was just a one-off. An alcohol-fueled mistake.
I scoot toward the edge of the mattress and find that my clothes are piled neatly at my feet.
There’s a rectangular envelope set atop them.
I reach for it, but hesitate.
I’ve seen this kind of thing before. It was never just texts or emails with Alec. After a while, “Yours Cruelly” became bolder, more brazen, changing it up every so often. Maybe he was growing bored or maybe he wanted to keep me on my toes for his own sick reasons.
I never asked.
Back in high school, sometimes I’d find these little slips of paper in my locker. Other times, I’d find them stuffed under my bedroom door. Once I found one stuck in the basket of my old dusty bicycle.
Only now I freeze, and my fingers shake—much like I used to do.
I don’t have a good track record where notes from Alec are concerned.
Sometimes they were funny, other times needlessly cruel. Maybe I should have crumpled them and tossed them in the trash without so much as thinking about reading them, but for whatever reason I never could.
I always wanted to know.
Perhaps, deep down, for some screwed-up reason, I was hoping that one of those notes would finally be a nice one, that the old cliché of the boy bullying the girl at the schoolyard because he liked her … would be us.
I was always wrong though.
His notes were heartless until the very end.
Deciding I still need to know, especially after last night, I reach forward and scan it, quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid.