Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Fuck, man. Are you okay?” Preston doesn’t know what to do, obviously, looking like he’s the one in pain as he crouches near me.
“Do I look okay?” I ask, staring off in the direction Emma disappeared in. “I’m going to fucking kill that girl. Wait and see. She’s going to die for this.”
6
PRESTON
What a fucking week.
And even though this is my last class today, I don’t have the luxury of looking forward to a weekend with nothing better to do than have fun, unwind with friends and all that.
No, I get to look forward to spending three hours at the hospital tomorrow, just like I did yesterday. Just like I’ll do again on Sunday.
It’s enough to make my blood simmer as I walk into the classroom where my 19th century American Literature class is held. I kind of like this class, which is rare for me. I’ve never been the guy who really engages in schoolwork—whatever the bare minimum is, that’s where I’m usually found. Honestly, what difference does it make? So long as I pass and graduate. I doubt anybody’s going to ask for a list of grades for every class I took in college.
But Lit, I can make an exception for. I don’t, like, look forward to the readings or anything, but I usually end up liking the material. And when we talk about it in class, I already know what the professor is going to say. When he asks questions, I usually know the answer.
Not that I give him the answer or anything. I’m not trying to have a debate. And I’m not trying to sit here with everybody staring at me, either. It’s unnerving. If they’re going to stare, it should be because they like my truck or wonder what my dick tastes like.
“Preston.” One of the girls sitting closer to the front of the room swivels in her chair and grins my way when I walk in. “You hanging out tomorrow night?”
Tomorrow night? Right, Carter and Elliana are having a party. I was so busy being pissed off, I forgot about it until now. My spirits start to lift—yeah, I still have to go into the hospital tomorrow, but I’ll have something to look forward to. It will help the time go faster than a brain-melting crawl.
Or I could be kidding myself.
“We’ll be there,” I reply, since I’m sure I can speak for Easton on this. When it comes to parties, he needs to be deathbed-level sick to stay home. I’m already looking forward to it. Drinking everything away. Letting myself forget about Brody and Emma and volunteering for a little while.
Right now, it’s impossible to forget about Emma.
Because she is sitting almost in the center of the room. She might as well have a spotlight shining on her—or maybe that’s just the way she stands out to me.
And she knows I’m here, too, which is why her eyes are glued to the notebook open on her desk. The page is blank, but she is staring at it like it’s the most important thing she’s ever seen.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m broken somehow. Otherwise, why is there a sizzle of excitement racing up my spine and lighting up the darkest corners of my brain, all because this girl is here? All it takes is recognizing her to make my skin prickle in anticipation. Everything around me gets sharper and clearer, right down to Emma’s blonde curls resting on her shoulders.
Somebody sitting behind her is now staring up at me. Jerking my chin, I growl, “You’re in my seat.” That’s all it takes to make him move—he gets his shit together like the desk is on fire, leaving it free for me to make myself comfortable.
I don’t believe in chance or fate or whatever, but dammit, there has to be a reason why she keeps showing up in front of me. I’m not trying to seek her out. All right, we were waiting for her a couple of days ago before she told us off, but otherwise? I would rather forget she exists.
Now, I sort of feel like I would be missing an opportunity if I don’t at least remind her who she’s dealing with. Whose life she made the mistake of getting involved in. I’m giving up a big chunk of my weekend, and all because she made a decision about something she was completely clueless about and refused to listen to reason. She brought this on herself.
“Pearls,” I murmur just loud enough for her to hear. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you’re stalking me. You always have to be where I am—parking lots, elevators, now here.”
The closest thing to a response I get is the slow rising and falling of her shoulders. Like she’s fighting for every breath. Keeping herself calm. I know how that feels, since the more I think about her kneeing Easton in the balls yesterday, the more curious I am about what it will take to break her down. I don’t know who she thinks she is. She might as well strut around wearing a sign saying I’m better than you, since that’s clearly what she believes. To her, Easton and I are nothing but violent thugs. She’s already made up her mind.