Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“Just get in,” I say, feeling too defeated to have this conversation. I’m not punishing her. I’m just …
I don’t fucking know.
“No. I’m not getting in until you say something. Until you tell me what you’re thinking and feeling.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“June—Zoya, whatever the hell your name is, just …” I close my eyes for a second. “Get in.”
She shakes her head.
“Christ, just get in.” I grab her arm, and she jerks away, stumbling backwards onto the ground. “June!” I reach for her, but not before a man in all black shoves me and helps her up.
“Hey! Get the fuck away from her,” I say, lunging toward him.
He rams me into the car beside the Chevelle.
“Stop!” June pulls on his shirt as he keeps his arm against my throat.
He looks familiar—the ride-share driver.
“I’ve got it,” June says in a calmer voice.
He releases me, and I fix my jacket.
“Who the fuck are you?” I tug on my stupid tie as he backs up, leaning against the same black SUV—the only one—she’s ever ridden in. And I’m just now making the connection that’s not a coincidence.
June opens the door and gets into the Chevelle.
I stare at him as he waits by his SUV with a stony expression.
“Just get in,” June says, fastening her seat belt.
I close her door, eyeing him the whole way around the car.
“He’s my bodyguard,” she says, head bowed, hands fiddling with her handbag’s zipper.
“Of course he is,” I whisper, starting the car.
We don’t speak on the way back to her apartment, but I’m hyperaware of the headlights in the rearview mirror the whole time.
“Is it your pride?” she asks when I park along the street in front of the gallery.
I don’t respond, turning off the engine and sitting idle, staring out the window at the passing cars and people milling around the neighborhood, a line outside of the bar on the corner. Normal people. I thought she was normal too.
“You’ve decided you hate people with money, so now you can’t be with me?”
“I don’t hate people with money,” I whisper.
“Then what’s the big deal?” I feel her gaze on me, but I can’t look at her. It hurts too much.
“I bought you a car … and you said nothing.” I grunt. “I’m sure you and your parents had a good laugh about that.”
“Flynn …”
“One scoop of ice cream on our first date. That’s what I could afford. And I waited in misery for a whole week until I had enough money to take you to dinner.” I tug on my coat. “I didn’t buy this fucking suit because I wanted to save the money to pay for your parking each month, or maybe help pay for gas in your car. I brought you flowers I picked myself because they were free, and I tied them with a goddamn shoelace.” I shake my head. “I’m sure you’ve been showered with dozens and dozens of expensive flowers, jewelry, fancy chocolates, you name it.” I close my eyes. “I’m such a fucking fool.”
“Flynn,” she whispers, then sniffles, resting her hand on my leg. “None of that matters to me.”
“Well, it matters to me! Yeah. It’s my pride. Is that what you want to hear? Is that a flaw?” I force myself to look at her tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes. “I have nothing.” I jab a finger into my chest. “Except my pride, and now that’s gone. I didn’t walk away from a glamorous life. Do you know what a luxury that is? Oh, fame and fortune were too stressful, maybe I’ll pretend to be a common person. I’ll pretend to understand what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck and slum in a two-bedroom apartment where I have my own bedroom and shop at Whole Foods.”
She swallows hard and wipes her tears. “You’re an asshole,” she whispers. “Because you only see what you want to see. You did it with the Rawlings, and now you’re doing it with me. And I’m—” her voice breaks. “I’m sorry that you don’t feel worthy of nice things, of opportunities … of love.” She opens the door. “That’s your loss.”
“My loss?”
She climbs out and heads across the street between cars.
I follow her. “My loss? Are you fucking kidding me?” I run after her.
The screech of a horn cuts through the air, I look to my right, blinded by headlights, but I keep running.
“Watch out, you stupid kid!” some guy yells out his window.
June fishes her keys out of her handbag.
“You want to know what’s my loss?” I shrug off my jacket and unbutton my shirt. “Pick a scar, June. Pick. A. Fucking. Scar. Let’s talk about the loss of my innocence. Every broken bone. Third-degree burns. Belts to my backside. A fractured nose. Hair yanked out in chunks. Days locked in a closet.” I choke on my next words. The man who made me touch him. I say in my head. They may never leave. I may never tell anyone. “You don’t know shit about my loss,” I whisper.