Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
He’s sitting in the big leather chair by the window. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar open at the throat. I can see the pulse in his neck. His eyes are all shadow.
He doesn’t get up when I come in. He just watches me, the glass resting on his knee, the other hand clamped on the arm of the chair. For a second, he looks like he’s not sure what I am—a burglar, a stray, a ghost he conjured by accident.
“Hi,” I say, voice small. The word disappears into the air, lost before it even reaches him.
He waits. He doesn’t invite me in. He doesn’t ask if I want a drink. He just stares at me with those blue eyes, the same eyes that saw me nude and trembling, spread open on his bed, calling his name. Those eyes that could look at me for hours and never blink.
“Come here,” he says, finally. The words are soft but not gentle.
I walk across the silent carpet, feeling like a trespasser. Every step closer, I smell the Scotch—peaty and sweet and laced with something burned. I smell, too, the faint echo of my own perfume, the one I left here last weekend, a ghost on the fabric of the couch. The memory lands with a jolt, cruel and nostalgic.
I stop three feet from him, because anything closer would mean forgiveness, and I don’t deserve that.
He doesn’t look at me, not directly. He sets the glass down on the little side table, making a point of it, the heavy crystal ticking loud in the quiet.
He asks, “Was it true?” His voice is flat, almost expressionless. “The bet. Was it real, or was Stella just making up nasty shit to see if she could ruin my life?”
I feel the words hit like a slap. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. When I finally force it, my voice cracks on the first syllable.
“The bet was real,” I say, “but it wasn’t—” I shake my head, try again. “It was real, but it was a stupid thing. We made the bet before I ever even knew who you were. I never meant—”
He holds up a hand. Just that. The gesture is so calm it freezes me in place.
He says, “You should have told me.”
I try to meet his gaze, but he’s staring at the carpet, at the spill of light on the floor. His face is rigid, all bone and shadow.
He goes on, “You should have told me, or you should have walked away from it. Either would have been fine. But you didn’t. You kept it going.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “You took pictures, Andie. Remember the fundraiser, early on? You took a picture of my dick, with my face showing. Was that for the bet?”
I nod, too ashamed to lie.
He gives a single, humorless laugh, not even a breath. “Of course. Because you showed it to the other girls.”
I want to explain it, to tell him I only ever wanted to win for the sake of not losing, that I would give everything just for a chance to start over. I want to say that I love him, that every time I pressed my body to his it wasn’t for a prize, it was because I needed him like air, like water, like sustenance. But all of it sounds so weak, so childish, that the words die before I can even try.
I hear myself say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He cuts me off, voice so controlled it’s almost inhuman. “You didn’t mean to win? Or you didn’t mean for me to find out?” He turns, now, and his eyes pin me to the spot. “Did you think you’d just keep it a secret, and everything would be fine? That you could fuck your way through a thousand-dollar dare and I’d be none the wiser?”
I flinch. It’s not the word “fuck” that hurts. It’s the truth under it.
He stands, slow and deliberate, and for a second I think he’s going to throw the glass. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at me with a rigidity I’ve never seen before.
He says, “You’re a kid. Maybe that’s my fault. I thought you were more than that, but maybe you’re not.” His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping. “Give me the key. I want it back. You have no right to use it anymore.”
The key. I’d forgotten it was still in my pocket. I take it out, the metal slick and greasy in my fingers. I walk to the kitchen counter, set it down. The sound is so loud it makes me jump.
He nods, as if that’s all he was waiting for.
My eyes are hot, burning, but I can’t let myself cry. Not yet.