Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
“What else can you tell about me, Party Girl? I like this game.”
“Well, you’ve got an extraordinarily beautiful ass. Perhaps the most beautiful ass I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you. Back at you. Especially when it’s stomping furiously down a hallway in nothing but a G-string.”
“Oh, you liked that, did you?”
“I liked that a lot.”
“I could tell.” I wink. “Your wet undies were completely see-through, you may recall.”
He licks his lips. “You wanted me so bad,” he says, “you were losing your fucking mind—not to mention dripping down your legs.”
I smirk, but I don’t deny it.
“So tell me more, PG. More, more, more.”
“Well...” I trail off. “Besides the fact that you have a beautiful ass?”
“Besides that. Something deep and profound.”
“Okay. Well . . .” I twist my mouth. “You seem to be ... kind of... I don’t know the word. I took Philosophy 101, but I forget it all. Fatalistic?”
“I think that’s when someone believes their fate is, like, written in the stars—outside their control. Is that what you mean?”
“No. That’s not it. Well, maybe, sort of.”
“Because I am fatalistic to some degree. I think some things are beyond our control—like a brick wall you’re hurtling toward whether you like it or not. Nothing you can do about it.”
“Well, jeez. That’s kind of a bummer.”
“Not necessarily. Some brick walls feel fucking awesome when you crash into them.” His eyes flicker. “Some brick walls are worth the pain.”
I blush.
“What about you—do you believe in fate?”
I shake my head. “No. I believe in kicking ass.”
He smirks. “So, then, what did you mean to say?”
“What is it when someone thinks nothing matters? That everything is kind of pointless in the end?”
“I think that’s nihilism. I’d have to ask Jonas, though. But, of course, I’d never do that because then he’d talk my ear off about fucking philosophy for an hour and then I’d have to kill myself, which would be a major bummer.”
“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t have been able to come up with the word ‘nihilism’ if my life depended on it. I must have meant something else. I dunno.”
“Is that what you think of me? That I don’t think anything matters?”
“No. Of course not. I know things matter to you.”
He shifts his position on the bed. “Because I definitely think some things matter. A man’s word. Friends. A man’s family—whatever’s left of it, anyway.” A shadow briefly crosses his face. “It’s just that so few things really matter, there’s no sense getting too worked up about much. Getting a stupid ass-tattoo? Who gives a shit, you know? Like I say, in the end we’re all gonna die anyway, might as well just enjoy the ride and not sweat the small stuff.”
“So maybe your YOLO tattoo isn’t really a reminder to you not to get too cocky or comfortable, after all,” I say tentatively. “Maybe, it’s more something to help you remember the few things that actually matter to you.”
There’s a long beat.
“What about your other tattoos?” I ask, suddenly uncomfortable with the silence. I wasn’t trying to get all deep—it kind of happened by accident. “Did you get your other tattoos in tribute to the few things that matter—or because we’re all gonna die, anyway?”
He makes a face. “Some of each, depending on the tattoo.”
“When did you get the one for your mom?” I ask.
“When I was twenty, I think.”
“She died when you were seven?”
He nods.
“Why did you tell me it means ‘But for the Grace of God I go’ rather than telling me it’s your mom’s name?”
He shrugs. “I never tell people about my mom.”
“Why not?”
“Why are you asking me so many questions?”
“Because I gave you my application and you still owe me yours.”
He makes an annoyed face. “When I was really young, I used to tell people about her whenever anyone asked. Jonas and I had to see a therapist when we were kids and I used to just talk and talk and talk. Blah, blah, blaaaah. But when I was a teenager, I noticed every time I told people, I felt worse, not better. Telling people made them look at me funny—like there was something wrong with me because my mom was murdered—like, I dunno, all of a sudden, they thought every time I laughed I was full of shit. And then, after my dad died, and everything that happened with Jonas, I just shut the fuck up completely. From then on, talking about Mom just opened the floodgates to questions about my dad, which meant I’d pretty much be talking about Jonas and all his shit. And I realized I don’t need anyone scrutinizing my face as I’m talking for telltale signs that I’m ‘laughing through the pain.’”
I bite my lip.
He exhales. “New topic. Have you always been this way?”
“What way? Annoying?”
“No. So fucking orgasmic.”
“Oh.” I make a face like he just gave me whiplash. “Wow, that was a sudden shift in topic.”