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)
If it’s not them, I’d rather die.
Locked or not, I still have nightmares about that door from my childhood room creaking open, a monster rearing its head.
He even frightens the friends I had in the dark. The little stars that started to talk to me because they felt sorry for me.
I hate nighttime.
I hate lying in bed, waiting to sleep.
Not sure how someone can hate something so natural, but I do.
I always feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin with discomfort. Doesn’t matter what type of premium mattress or silky sheets I’m on. Doesn’t matter the type of incense or diffuser nonsense Jude buys religiously and puts in my room. He’s always falling for propaganda about some product that “scientifically” helps with sleep—now a lavender diffuser is vaporizing by my bedside.
This will always be the worst part of my day.
I’d rather be beaten to within an inch of my life by Lenin than this.
Pain is better than being helpless.
But pain isn’t endless, unfortunately.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, pulling me back to the present.
I turn to my side and check it. That chronic illness I need to find medicine for squeezes my chest as I read the text.
Headache
Are we back to the ghosting game?
I scoff. So yeah, maybe I haven’t replied to his texts since that night. What? He was the one who blocked me and was playing hard to get.
So he had to pay.
Also, no idea how to deal with the pest now.
Especially after his texts that night.
Are you okay?
Jude led you away, and you were surprisingly obedient as he fawned all over you, so I assume you’re doing perfectly well.
I’ll see you before the next game. We need to talk.
There’s nothing we need to talk about. Zilch. Nada.
We’re not friends. The best we can be is fuck buddies, and he needs to accept that.
My phone vibrates again.
Headache
If you refuse to text me back, I’ll assume you’re acting like a shy virgin after you kissed me so hungrily on that cliff.
Me
I did NOT kiss you so hungrily.
Are you sure? You looked ready to crawl out of your own skin. Hard to fake that kind of passion.
I can refer you to a therapist to deal with your pathological level of delusion.
Or you can just admit you liked kissing me.
I’ve had better.
With whom?
None of your business.
You can’t tell me you’ve had a better kiss with someone else, then say it’s none of my business, Preston. I’m asking you again. Who was it?
You really want to know?
Yes.
What to do? I decided not to tell you.
Preston.
Yes, Marcus?
If you don’t tell me, there will be consequences.
Oh no, should I tremble now or pencil it in for later?
The next time I see you, I’ll make your ass so red and your cock so hard, you’ll be begging to come and I won’t let you.
Bold of you to assume I’ll see you again. You’ll have to beg for three business days.
Are we playing that game again? Do you want to be blocked, is that it?
You have three seconds to reply, Preston. If I block you this time, I’ll never unblock you again.
Fuck you.
The next day, I go to Stantonville.
Hear me out. Yes, today is not the day before a game, and I don’t need to see the motherfucker Marcus, but I had to.
Because he dared to send the bike back.
Early this morning, Hayes told me it was delivered to the Armstrong mansion, which made Dad frown as usual and ask Hayes if I was into bikes now.
I’m not. But after classes, I drove this bike all the way to Stantonville because of a certain asshole.
I park near a corner, hidden by a graffiti-filled wall across from the shop where he works.
It’s a social experience since I’ve never seen a mechanic in real life. What? I don’t deal with my own cars.
Marcus is all alone in the shop, half buried under some shitty sedan as a leggy brunette in tight jeans stands close by, saying something I don’t hear as cars speed by on the street.
Soon, he slides out from beneath the car—that should be totaled—and hops up into a standing position.
My thoughts kind of trip over themselves and die.
Because what the fuck is he wearing?
I mean, I can see it, but how the hell is such a simple thing supposed to look like that?
Marcus is in some of those navy mechanic overalls, except the top half is tied around his waist, leaving him in a black sleeveless shirt that clings to solid, defined abs.
His shoulders look broader, arms cut and smeared with engine grease in a way that should be messy but somehow makes him look sculpted.
Decorated for a photo shoot or some shit.
A smudge slides across his forearm, another on his jaw as if they’re intentionally placed.
He wipes his hands with a rag, slow, deliberate, his forearms flexing with each drag. The muscles shift under his skin like they’re fully aware I’m staring.