Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Come on, Kaylee. You can go play, and I’ll watch.”
My fearless daughter races up the padded stairs to the jungle gym of tunnels running throughout the place while I sip on my coffee and try not to lose her. The tunnels have windows, and I track her by following the Elsa dress she had to wear because wearing anything else was not acceptable.
Not that I can’t afford to replace the dress she’s determined to destroy, but that’s not the point. I don’t want her growing up thinking everything is replaceable and money is never an issue.
I don’t want her to become like those spoiled kids at her school. I didn’t want her to go to pre-K at all, but socializing with kids her own age is supposedly “psychologically beneficial” or whatever. Apparently, if I don’t want her to grow up to be a sociopath, I have to let her get bitten by other children.
When I asked her teacher about the bite marks that first week, she lowered her voice and said, “We have a biter,” like it’s normal to let kids bite other kids and there was nothing they could do about it.
This, coming from the most expensive school in the LA area where all the stars send their children.
The worst part is they won’t even tell me which child it was who bit her. I bet it was one of the Kardashians’ kids.
The guy who thinks Eleven sucks moves in my periphery and stands a few feet away from me as his boy runs up into the tunnels.
It’s tempting—so tempting—to make eye contact with the guy just to get a reaction out of him, but if I’m recognized by anyone else, it’ll take a few autographs and selfies to get me and Kaylee out of here.
I am at a better angle to check him out properly, though.
Eleven definitely has haters out there. It’s not hard to when, as this guy puts it, the lyrics are lazy and cliché. We never claimed they weren’t. But the other thing those songs are? Multiplatinum-selling hits.
They might be shallow, but they’re damn catchy, and the biggest demographic out there is people wanting to dance and scream the words at the top of their lungs.
It doesn’t make Eleven or any of us who were in the band any less of an artist than this guy.
And there’s no doubt he’s an artist. Music, I’m guessing by his pretentious attitude.
He’s wearing ripped, black skinny jeans, a white T-shirt, an open black vest, and he has leather bands around his wrist.
His long golden surfer-boy hair is in a man bun at the nape of his neck.
And he’s hot. He’s all smooth skin with just a touch of stubble on his chin and jawline.
I want to keep staring at him, but eventually he’ll look my way, and then I’ll be fucked. And not in the way I’m close to fantasizing about right now.
I miss sex. There’s something to be said about only getting laid once in five years.
An ear-piercing screech fills the space, and I know without a doubt it’s my daughter.
Another kid wails, “Stop!”
I don’t know if I put my coffee down or I drop it, but all I know is when I run up those stairs and into the tunnels, I’m only thinking about Kaylee.
Someone climbs up behind me, and I may or may not accidentally kick them in the face.
Oops.
I turn to make sure it’s not a child and I haven’t hurt them, but all I see are the hazel eyes of the pretentious douche glaring at me, so I keep on climbing.
I’ll apologize when he tells me I don’t actually suck. My award for maturity should be coming any day now.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find—my thoughts go to worst-case scenarios like my daughter bleeding or with a broken bone—but when I reach a flat area through the first set of tunnels, what I find is startling, confusing, and a little laugh-worthy.
I can’t laugh though. If I do, my daughter will think this sort of behavior is acceptable.
She stands with her foot on top of the boy who was humming the Eleven song but is now lying on the floor.
I pull myself through the tunnel exit and stand, though the roof is about six inches too short. I hit my head but ignore the pain, craning my neck to fit properly. “Kaylee Margaret Kennedy. Let that boy go.” My voice is the firmest it’s ever been with her, so she does it immediately.
“But—”
“No buts. Say you’re sorry.”
Behind me, the boy’s dad gets to his feet.
He’s my height, so he headbutts the roof like I did as he stands. “Ah, mother flipping f—ire truck.” He glances at the kids. “Chase, what happened?”
“She kicked me!” the boy yells.
Kaylee faces me with big, round, green eyes that are welling up because she knows she’s in trouble. “He pushed in front of me. And you said if someone hurt me, I have to ’fend myself.”