Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
The house arrest has come with real withdrawal issues.
Marcus.
I met him the other day, the evening before the Friday game, but only briefly because Jude decided to join the late-night training and crashed the party.
Had to smuggle Marcus out the back door, to which he just frowned and left.
That was three days ago. Haven’t seen him since.
And I think he’s mad. No idea why.
Okay, I may have a tiny idea.
So, here’s the thing. That day, as soon as he walked into the locker room, he kissed me.
And I’m not talking a simple peck or a brush of lips, but more like he devoured my face, his fingers gripping my hair tightly and his tongue hooking on mine, nearly fucking my throat.
It made me delirious and disoriented, like that time he kissed me out of the blue in his kitchen.
And the bathroom.
Only difference was that, in the locker room, when his fingers dug into my skin and his lips claimed mine, it was terrifyingly intense.
I didn’t like it—or more like, I didn’t like how it made me feel.
It was just sudden, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.
Part of me was horny and was about to jump out of my skin wanting more.
But then he tried to lift my shirt, and I pushed him away.
Might have done that violently, but I mean, he touched my bruised hip from Lenin’s beatings, and it hurt like hell. But really, the reason I reacted so aggressively was because a side of me, the little bitch lurking inside me, was shaking at the thought of him seeing the map Lenin created.
“What’s wrong with you now?” he asked in a low tone, his slashed brows looking a bit ominous over his harsh eyes. “Is this the denial again?”
“Just…don’t touch me today.”
His eyes darkened even as his words came out smoothly. “Is it that time of the month?”
I punched him, which I shouldn’t have done, but he was being a dick. “Fuck you.”
Then Jude, the asshole, chose that exact moment to walk in. “Pres? You in here?”
I shoved Marcus out, thankful he hadn’t changed yet, and he just gave me a cryptic look before he left.
Then he proceeded to ignore me for two days. The audacity.
I had to get drunk before I texted him.
Me
I didn’t mean to hit you, but you were being a prick.
Walking Red Flag (W.R.F.)
Is this your way of apologizing?
Who said anything about apologizing? I’m just saying.
Glad you got that off your chest.
It’s not my fault Jude came over.
If you say so.
It wasn’t.
Ok.
Are you mad?
What gave you that idea?
Very funny.
Not my intention.
Don’t be mad.
Why not?
I don’t like it.
You don’t like it when I’m mad at you?
No.
Then maybe don’t make me mad. You do that so effortlessly sometimes.
Yeah, I know. Not sure how I even do it, but apparently, Marcus is often mad at me lately. First in his bathroom, then in the locker room.
And I truly struggle to figure out what I’ve done.
I liked it better when he just made me come, and we didn’t have to talk. Now, I don’t know how to reply to him.
He’s aware I’m under house arrest, so he didn’t push, but I don’t like that he’s keeping his distance.
Does that mean he’s stopped caring?
Might he find someone else? He better not test my easily provoked temper.
The thought of Marcus with someone else makes all my demons surge to the surface.
“Catch me if you can, Pressie!” Miley’s voice snags my attention as she skates between some people, her wings flying about.
She’s racing around like a reckless little shit, zigzagging between the other skaters.
“Mimi, slow down!” I skate toward her, and she giggles as she picks up her pace.
All of a sudden, she crashes into a tall person’s legs.
The prickling sensation that seems to be a constant lately spreads across my back and pours into my bloodstream, flowing like lava.
Either I’ve picked up hallucinating in addition to all the other fucked-up symptoms my brain has come up with, or I’m looking at Marcus.
I blink and he’s still there.
So he’s real? He better be. I really don’t want to deal with hallucinations on top of everything else.
Or maybe he’s a dream.
He looks a bit softer than usual, dressed in jeans that outline his long, muscular legs that go for damn miles. A thick navy-blue sweater stretches over his broad shoulders, hugging his frame like a second skin.
And his hair…what the fuck did he do to his hair? It’s not styled per se and is still as untamed as usual, but there’s a sort of side part. Some haphazard strands fall on either side of his forehead, making him look like skating porn.
Doesn’t help that he sort of towers over almost everyone here, so it’s hard to miss the motherfucker.
Though his gaze is entirely on me—those metal eyes unreadable like a stormy day that keeps grumbling in the distance but doesn’t get close.