Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Even though we’ve known each other on paper, this is our first meeting. So maybe it’s supposed to go like this. Maybe he’s supposed to be all aloof and dark, wrong-looking—no, just different than what I’d imagined—and make me shiver and shake.
Maybe his dark and not-blue eyes are supposed to feel like a branding iron.
“I wanted to see you,” I say. “I couldn’t…”
His voice goes even lower, if that’s possible. “You couldn’t what?”
My belly trembles in response. “Stop myself.”
And in turn, the muscle in his cheek jumps.
Clearing my throat, I continue, “I hated the idea of you just sitting here, waiting for me to show up and I… I couldn’t take that. Not after everything we’ve shared and—”
“Get up.”
“What?”
“Get up,” he repeats on a deep growl. “And leave.”
I draw back. “I-I’m sorry. Did I—”
He leans forward a little, his eyes fiery.
It happened in an instant, too, the charcoal going up in flames. As if there’s a fire inside of him and it’s raging.
God, he looks so intimidating like this.
That’s what it is, isn’t it?
That’s why he looks so wrong and different and whatnot.
It’s the fact that he appears threatening, sitting here, with his large and muscular body and a brutally beautiful face. All this time that I talked to him in letters, he never felt dangerous. Even though I knew the man I was corresponding with was a convicted felon, I never once felt afraid.
I do now.
“Get the fuck up and go.”
I flinch. “But I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.”
My hands begin to tremble. “I—”
“This was a mistake.”
This time, I go still. “Mistake?”
His nostrils flare, his face cruel. “Yeah. So what you need to do is listen to me and leave.” He growls again when I don’t move, “Now.”
“Is it…” I twist my fists in my lap as my cheeks burn and burn and burn. But not enough to stop me from asking, “Did you picture someone d-different? Than me.”
Because if I was picturing him in my head all this time, he was probably picturing me too. While I found him different from my imagination, he probably found me different too.
And different, when it comes to me, is the code word for lacking.
Guys usually don’t find me or my body very appealing. A body made of pasty flesh and jiggly curves. A body less than perfect.
So maybe I should listen to him and leave.
But again, instead of doing the smart thing, I sit there and let him peruse me. At my question, his burning stare moves to my blond hair, which is in a braid that falls to my waist. A few loose tendrils caress the base of my throat where I can feel my pulse fluttering under his gaze. He takes in my trembling chest, the wide square neck of the dress he asked me to wear exposing more than I’d like.
He stays there for a bit before coming back up to my face.
But when it’s over, his perusal, it feels like it went too fast. Like he was taking me in only to dismiss me more than to study me.
“Yes.”
So there it is then. His only answer harsh and curt.
Like me, he had pictured someone different.
Except he still made my heart race with both ecstasy and apprehension. While I probably repelled him.
So, at long last, after six months and within two minutes of meeting the man I dream about every night, I force myself to be smart and do as he says.
I get up, the scrape of the chair dragging against the floor sounding louder than the noises of this crowded café.
Feeling weak and dejected—completely opposite of what I felt when I walked in—I walk out.
And promise—God, I promise—to forget about Bo Porter.
PART I
To: Bo Porter
From: Peyton Turner
Dear Mr. Porter,
I hope this letter finds you well.
My name is Peyton Turner and I’m a freshman at Montana State University. I’m writing to you because we’re covering reformation in the prison system as a part of our sociology class and for my final assignment, I’m supposed to write an analysis paper. My professor has encouraged me to interview an inmate and use the information to construct my argument. I’m telling you this up front because I want you to know that I may use parts of our letters to write my final commentary, and I don’t know how you’d feel about that. So if you’d rather not do this with me, I won’t blame you.
This is my first time using the prison pen pal system so I’m not an expert, but from what I understand, most people enter into this looking for a connection, a friend, maybe; someone to talk to. And I want you to know that even though this is part of an assignment, I can be your friend for a little while.
In fact, how about to get the ball rolling I tell you a secret?