Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I can’t keep calling this girl Elly May. Then again, I’m just passing through, so it’s not like it really matters. But I want to know just the same. Grumpy or not, she’s taken care of me when I’d have called the cops in her position.
She sets down her mug and looks me in the eye. “Liberty Bell.”
I’d wonder if she’s fucking with me, but the militant expression on her face says she is completely serious.
“That’s…patriotic.”
She snorts and sips her coffee. “It’s ridiculous. But my parents loved it, and I loved my parents so…” She shrugs.
Loved. As in past tense.
“You alone then?” I wince as soon as the words come out, because she tenses, her soft gray eyes going hard again.
Liberty pushes back from the table. “I had your bike towed this morning. I’ll take you to town so you can sort it out with the mechanic.”
I stand too, fast enough to make the floor tilt. “Hey, wait.” When she pauses to look at me, I’ve got nothing. A first. I run my hand over my tangled hair and remember her washing it. “Don’t you want to know my name?”
Hell, it’s the last thing I want to give. But it irks that she’s already rushing me out the door. And damn if I know why that bothers me.
She looks me over, a slow inspection that makes my skin itch and swell. It isn’t a hot look. It’s judgment. And I’m clearly found lacking. Another first.
Her hair sways, catching the sunlight as she shakes her head. “No. No, I don’t.”
And then she leaves me with a cup of cooling coffee and a plate of biscuits.
Liberty
I’ve been alone too long. I don’t know how to act around people anymore. Especially not this guy. Yesterday he was disgusting. Drunk and too far gone to function. I should have left him on my porch, called the police, and cleaned myself up while they hauled his ass away.
But I couldn’t. Not all drunks are bad. Some are just lost. I have no idea what this guy’s issue is. I only know that, when faced with the decision, I hadn’t the heart to leave him.
So I dragged him to my bathroom and washed him clean. There was nothing sexual about the act. He stank something awful and was so butt-drunk, it was all I could do not to wring his thick neck for being so reckless.
Not to mention I was pissed to have to give my bed up to the idiot. No way was I going to be able to haul him upstairs to the guest rooms.
But now, in the light of day, I am at sea when it comes to my drunken bum. His presence in my house is immense. As if a mere room could never contain him.
Presence. My mom used to say there were those who just had it. I never understood what she meant until today. Because even though he’s fumbling his words and clearly hung-over, this guy vibrates with vitality. It permeates the air like a perfume, soaking into my skin and making me want to rub myself all over him just to get a little bit more of that feeling—as if by being near him, I, too, might be something special.
It makes no sense. But then life rarely makes sense to me.
And now that he isn’t piss-ass drunk and filthy, I can see the beauty of him. His body is long and tight with a sort of rawboned strength of sinewy muscles and sharp movements. His hair is still a tangled mess, falling down to his shoulders and the color of rich, dark coffee. A thick, unkempt beard covers most of his face, which is…annoying. Because it hides too much.
But what I can see points to an attractive man. His nose is bold, a bump along the high bridge as if he once busted it, but the shape fits his face. Prominent cheekbones and what looks to be a stubborn chin under all that fuzz give him an air of pure masculinity.
His eyes, however, are downright pretty. Framed under the dark slashes of his brows, they shine like obsidian.
How could a person not be swayed? Those eyes tracked my every move around the kitchen earlier. Unnerving me.
I shoved food at him just to make him look away. He hadn’t, though. Even as he inhaled my biscuits like a man starved, he watched me. Not in a sexual way, though, more like I was a mess he’d inadvertently walked into. The irony made me want to laugh.
Now, I just want to get away from him. Talking about my parents reminds me why I should hate this guy—this drunk-driving stranger who took not only his life but the lives of everyone he shared the road with into his unsteady hands. My life will never be the same because of a drunk driver, and I have little respect for those who do it. Even if they quote Shakespeare and have cheeky, somewhat cute smiles.