Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
“Bring cleaners? Of course you did.” I chuckle, stumbling off the bed. “I’ll leave it to you, rich kids.”
I cast one last glance at the lump of flesh and bones I left behind and feel nothing but the crashing ache that no matter what I do, I can’t bring him back.
But if I continue to kill, I’ll be able to see his ghost.
As I’m about to leave, Jude fists my bloodied collar and snarls in my face, “You think you can ruin my fucking revenge and then leave?”
“That’s the plan, Callahan.”
I breathe harshly, that rage bubbling to the surface. “I should maim you instead.”
Even though I’d like to beat him the fuck up for failing to save Preston, for not protecting his own girl so we wouldn’t be in this predicament, I know Preston wouldn’t like it.
And I don’t want to see his disapproving face in my hallucinations.
“That’s right,” Preston whispers in my head. “Jude’s my bestie, remember? We’re bros.”
Kane pulls Jude away from me. “Let him go.”
“But this motherfucker—”
Kane shakes his head, cutting Jude off, and gives me a once-over, then lets out in a breath, “Pres wouldn’t like it.”
Something inside me jolts. The heart that I thought died after Preston left me is resurrecting from the ashes at the mere mention of him.
Jude lets me go, watching me peculiarly, but I pull out a candy, mango flavored, and throw it in my mouth. At first, the mango mixes with the tangy taste of blood, but soon enough, it’s all Preston.
Like the few times when I made him suck on a candy after I fucked him, kissing him through it. He loved it. He expected it. He’d stroke my hair and sigh in my mouth as we both shared a kiss through the candy.
And now, I can’t do that anymore, because he chose death over me.
And I don’t know how I’ll survive it.
Or if I’ll ever admit that he’s gone for good.
Every day, I watch my phone, waiting for his texts that used to brighten my life. Every night, I stare out my window and look for his shadow in front of the house.
I look everywhere, but he’s not there.
And I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong. If I’m not answering, I’m probably ignoring you on purpose, so maybe lose my number. If you’re part of Preston’s VIP Club, leave a message and I might grace you with my attention.”
As it goes to voicemail, I hang up and call again, putting the phone to my ear.
Then I do it again.
And again.
I smile at his words sometimes. Other times, I feel my lips tremble.
Mostly, I just stare into the distance while standing on top of the cliff where I almost lost him once. On the anniversary of his mother’s death.
When he was so out of it.
Maybe it started then. The fixation, the obsession, the need to protect him from a world that doesn’t deserve him.
I still lost him anyway, so now what?
Listen to his voice on repeat, that’s what.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong…”
Again.
And again.
One more time.
My body’s growing numb from the icy wind as I listen to his voice on speaker, leaning against my bike and staring at the photo on my screen.
It’s one of the few selfies he took with my phone. This one was when we went out with Mom for coffee. She had to go to the hospital for an emergency, and I thought he’d ask for the date to end since, well, Mom was no longer available as a buffer. However, Preston just sat there with me in a coffee shop full of people.
He slid his foot up my thigh and talked shit about my sweater. He made me drink spiced hot chocolate and wiped the foam off my lips. Then, when we were in the parking lot, he said we needed to take a picture.
He held the phone up and snapped so many as we stood by the bike. In one, he put me in a headlock. In another one, we both smiled at the camera. But my favorite is this one.
Where he kissed the corner of my mouth, his cheeks creasing with dimples, his eyes nearly closed.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong…”
Again.
“How long are you going to listen to that hideous voice?” Preston murmurs from beside me.
I gulp, my throat working up and down, but I force myself to stare at the town’s lights.
“God, I sound so pretentious.” He laughs.
“Don’t call your voice hideous. It’s my favorite voice. And you’re not pretentious.”
“Wow, if cliché were ever to hit you upside the head, this would be it, dude.”
I feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder. “Go home, Marcus. It’s cold.”
“I don’t want to. Mom will be waiting for me. She keeps trying to make me talk about you.”