Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
“Ughhh,” I grumble.
My cheek vibrates, and I move my head slightly to see that I’m lying directly on my phone. I pull it out from under my face and hold it up, willing my eyes to focus on the screen.
Drew: Everything okay? Just got out of Calc and was surprised you weren’t there.
I can barely type the words, but somehow, I manage.
Me: Sorry yeah. Got food poisoning and trying to survive
It’s not entirely accurate, but it is the simplest explanation. I drop my head back down to the comforter, relishing in the coolness of the fabric.
Drew: I can come by if you want. Bring some soup or something to help you hydrate?
Ace’s loud groan from across the hall, weirdly, makes me smile. Not only does bringing a third person into this unnecessarily seem like cruel and unusual punishment, but for some reason, it also feels…wrong.
There’s something so special about Ace and me together, even in this state, that I can’t put my finger on.
He feels different lately.
He’s matured. He’s still so fun, but he’s also serious.
I don’t know. Maybe…maybe the two of us could…
I shake my head and close my eyes.
Shh, Julia, that’s just the hallucination of the sickness talking.
Or is it?
The uncertainty is enough to give my fingers the energy to type out one last message to Drew. He’s sweet. He’s considerate.
But right now, he’s not needed.
Me: Thanks, but we’re good. I’ll see you tomorrow.
And just like that, I fall back to sleep. To dreams of Ace and me. To dreams of what could be.
Friday, Sept 5th
Ace
At Lexi’s prompting, I arrive at the back door of the Nash Mathematics Center on Dickson’s campus at five o’clock on the dot, nothing but the clothes on my back, a condom in my pocket, and my phone back in my apartment.
The condom wasn’t a requirement per se, but my dad raised me on the phrase Don’t be silly, protect your willy!, and while I’m not at all planning to have sex with someone else because I’m in love with Julia, I also have no way of knowing what’s about to happen to me tonight. What if part of the initiation ritual for Double C’s head of operations is to dip your genitals in a bucket of wax and the past leaders weren’t STI negative?
Anyway, it’s better safe than sorry, and if they run me through a metal detector or pat me down, a lone condom isn’t liable to bat any eyelashes.
I survey the door and test the knob, but it’s locked, and the sun, still on its way down on the western horizon, pierces me directly in the eye. I cup my palm and hold it up in front of me to block it out, but just as I manage, a dark sack comes over my head and does the job for me.
I let out a muffled scream—instinct makes it hard not to—but catch myself quickly as I’m ushered off the curb, into a waiting car, and sped off quickly.
Holy hell, it’s really happening…
When Lexi’s text finally came in an hour ago, ending my two-week dance in the dark void of curiosity and scrambling any other attention to a normal Friday night entirely, a part of me wondered if this would still be a precursor or a test of my willingness to wait.
But kidnappings don’t speak to more stalling; kidnappings scream action.
And since I can feel the leather seats under my hands and smell the freshness of a well-maintained space, any fear that I’m being kidnapped for something other than Double C vaporizes entirely.
The moment has arrived. And I have a really good feeling that by the end of the night, I’ll be more than halfway to realizing all my goals.
King of Double C? Check.
Recipient of Julia’s love? Almost.
“Well, this is interesting,” I remark, which earns me an unidentified chuckle from someone in the car. There are hushed whispers that follow, and then, silence.
I hum a song to myself as we drive and drive, and then we eventually pull to a stop on hard brakes somewhere else. The door beside me opens, and I’m lifted out and walked forward into the shade and air of a building. I march on sure feet, someone’s hand at my elbow to steady me, and sigh when I’m shoved down into a chair somewhere within what feels like the recesses of a maze of hallways.
“Stay here until someone comes for you,” a deep but sort of familiar voice says. “Do not take off the bag.”
I nod. “You got it.”
I can’t quite pinpoint how I know the voice, but my mind strives to figure it out while I sit in complete darkness.
And I sit and I sit—and I sit some more.
I don’t know what time it is, and I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but eventually, I try to keep myself occupied by rolling through a few renditions of “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga. It’s Julia’s ringtone, and I know the song like the back of my fucking hand.