Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
She wrinkles up her nose as if I just said the most ridiculous thing. “If he wanted you hurt…well, you wouldn’t be here right now.” I cock a brow at her, and she amends, “In my room. He would have kicked you out. But he asked you to stay. And he’s covered in hickeys from you. I’ve never in my life seen anyone put their mark on Tiernan like that.”
My mind is all jumbled at what she said. I still struggle to believe what she’s saying could be true, but what has me wanting to ram my fist through a wall is that my first thought wasn’t that never, in a million fucking years, would I want Tiernan to like me. I shouldn’t be thinking about why he can’t, and instead about how I can use this or why I don’t want him to.
“Come here.” She pats the bed.
My feet don’t move right away. This all feels really fucking…close. This is a thing friends do, right? Sit on the bed together and talk about guys they like, or books, or the fucking weather. Who the hell knows because the only friend I’ve ever allowed myself to have was my mom.
My heart squeezes. God, I miss her.
“Dean? Are you okay?”
I nod because it’s easier than finding my voice at the moment. The floor feels like it shrinks, getting smaller and smaller, taking me less steps than it should to reach the bed and sit down beside her.
“Tiernan is…better than most people think. He’s an asshole, I get it, but you don’t understand how we were raised.”
White-hot anger fries my insides. I know enough, and what I don’t know, I should know because I should have been there. If Sloan hadn’t been the bastard he was, my father wouldn’t have wanted to leave. I would have known Tiernan my whole life and had family and fucking been someone.
Relax. Take a deep breath. Don’t ruin this.
This. The thing that means hurting Aislin too.
“Like how?” I ask.
“My father…he’s cruel. Everything he does is for himself. Where Tiernan cares about me, my father cares about how things look. It’s difficult to explain, but he’s hard on Tiernan. He’s had to do a lot of things people triple his age will never have to do. But there’s nothing T wouldn’t do for me…me, Rory, or Cillian. I trust him with my life. He deserves more than he gets.”
“More than this?” I point to the house surrounding us.
“That’s just a thing, money. I’m talking about real shit, and while me, Rory, and Cil love him… Okay, here’s an example. Did you know my brother is minoring in English Literature? He loves books and can talk about things that none of us give a fuck about, or hell, even understand. That’s a part of him no one would expect—this hard, angry boy who simply loves to read. If it were his choice, he would only be getting an English Lit degree, but it’s not for him to decide. He can only minor rather than major in what he wants.”
Now I understand why he took The Count from me. I thought he’d only done it to be an asshole, but it’s because he likes to read? I try to imagine Tiernan lying in bed at night with a book in his hands, but I can’t see it.
“He also only reads on paper. No e-books. He’s just…different. He has an old soul that not many people get to see.”
“Sometimes I think you’re a little old man trapped in a child’s body. You have such an old soul, my sweet Dean.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that can somehow silence my mom’s voice in my head. It can’t, of course. In one way or another, it’s always there, loving me even when I know that everything I do would likely be a disappointment to her.
Tiernan and I aren’t supposed to be the same. We’re not supposed to have anything in common, but this isn’t the first similarity I’ve noticed, and I’m scared to death it won’t be the last.
“Dean? Are you okay?” I nearly jump out of my skin when Aislin’s soft hand touches my arm, my body on autopilot and fumbling off the bed to stand. “Shit. I’m sorry.” She frowns. “Did I do something wrong?”
Fuck. I’m cracking up here. My insides are jittery, like there’s an earthquake beneath my surface that could intensify at any moment.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I try to act normal, take a couple of deep breaths and hope that calms the stampede that is my heart, before sitting back on the bed. I feel too many things—confusion, anger, interest, sadness—to be able to focus on just one, so I do what I always do and not focus on any of them. “He probably wouldn’t want you to tell me shit like that.”