Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Okay. That’s not a terrible thing to hear. It’s kind of annoying, though, that she’s too young for me but somehow a lot wiser.
She steps away. “I need to get out of this swimsuit.”
I cock an eyebrow, and she laughs, realizing how enticing that sounded to me. She leaves, heading up the stairs, and I watch her disappear into her room.
What the hell am I doing?
I comb my hand through my hair, staring after her.
Is it because she’s just a little bit forbidden and I want to feel it all over again?
Or maybe I just want to be happy, because it’ll piss Macon off for me to have something of my own.
Or maybe she’s kind.
Maybe she’s someone you keep, and she’d never hurt me.
I’d like a date to find out.
I glance out of the window at my side, watching Dallas smoke in the driveway and Trace under the hood of some girl’s car, laughing and talking to her.
I shake my head, making my way to the kitchen. He’s probably using the “Can I pop your hood?” routine. Within days, she’ll be calling him over to check “this weird sound” she heard while driving. It’s amazing how often this works out for him.
I walk around teenagers as I step through the kitchen, desperate to put my T-shirt back on, but it has cum all over it.
Moving past the stove, I open the only door I can find and step inside. I reach up for a chain to the light but find nothing. I pat the wall on both sides of the door, finally finding the switch. Flicking it on, I don’t see Milo, but I hear pounding and muffled shouting.
“Get me outta here!”
I spot another door straight ahead and close the one behind me. Picking up the padlock, I yank on it for good measure, but yeah, it’s secure. Looking up and around, I quickly find the key sitting on a shelf in front of some jars of pesto sauce. Krisjen wouldn’t have been able to keep it on her in a swimsuit.
I pick it up.
Milo Price is ten years younger than me, too. The responsible thing to do with him six months ago would have been to press charges over how he tried to assault my sister. What I wanted to do was kill him.
I could have. A lot more easily than having sex for money. It’s a question I often ponder. What would I be like if I weren’t worried about going to prison?
Dallas, Trace, Iron … they all think I’m boring. I know they do.
I’m not boring. I’m just worried. All the time. Afraid. All the time. About them. About Macon. About Dex. Someone has to be the cautious one. The reliable one.
I slip the key in, twist it, and pull off the lock, stepping back as the door bursts open. Milo rushes out, sweating like a pig and sucking in air like he was in a fucking coffin.
“You son of a bitch,” he growls.
But he stops just short of getting in my face.
He shifts on his feet, his dark hair wet with perspiration and his shirt nearly soaked. I’m sure he thinks I helped lock him up.
“You gonna hit a kid?” he challenges me. “Huh?”
Gotta hand it to him. He knows I’d kick his ass, but he still talks like he’d kick mine.
“Clay’s here if you’d rather she do it.” I plant my hand on his face, brushing the scar down the side of it before I push him away. “She made you prettier.”
Turned out, my sister didn’t need her brothers to protect her. That Saint of hers was only too happy to take care of business herself. And being as connected as she is, she knew she wouldn’t get in trouble for spilling his blood.
But Milo isn’t scared. “You know where I’ll go.” He closes in, a few inches from my face. “Please stop me.”
I smile at his dare. Why does he think I let him out of the pantry to begin with?
“You better hurry.” I step out of the way. “The rain is starting.”
He remains in place for another few seconds and then walks past me, never turning his back until he’s out the pantry door. “Don’t be long,” he says.
“I’m right behind you.”
He leaves, and I follow, weaving through the crowd until I make it to the foyer. The music pumps, the black lights showing off all the artwork over all the naked skin, and I look around for Krisjen.
But I don’t find her, thankfully.
I spot her brother instead, the twelve-year-old huddled in conversation with Santos’s son, JC. Mars is shirtless, some kind of anime character drawn on his arm.
I charge over, yanking JC’s arm. “Hey!” I glare down at the kid. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes go wide, and he straightens, clearly shocked to see me. “What? Um …” He struggles to find his words. “Well, they sneak over to our side all the time,” he says, as if that’s an excuse to come here.