Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I smile at him and shift in the bed before I can stop myself. My smile drops and I try to turn on my hardened girl act I’m famous for, but it’s impossible when his finger reaches up and strokes my cheek.
“How did you sleep?” He asks, watching my mouth, waiting for me to answer.
“I hate it here,” I answer.
“You’ll be out soon enough,” he promises.
It’s empty, though. He shouldn’t say things just to try to reassure me. I’ve heard it all my life, starting with the social workers who showed up after my parents died. They swore to me that everything would be okay. I guess it’s just something you tell a nine-year-old who just found her parents dead. They lied then, and he’s lying now.
I hate it when people say things just to placate someone else. I turn my head away from him because looking in his eyes almost has me believing him. The last thing I want to do is believe the lies.
“What time is it?”
“Just after ten. The nurse said the psychiatrist will be here around eleven to clear you so you can leave.” His voice is calm and reassuring. I want to close my eyes and listen to him speak all day, but I have less than an hour to get out of here.
I cut my eyes back to him. “I need to leave.” I begin to shift my weight to the edge of the bed, noticing that my IV is gone. Nurse Emo must have removed it sometime last night. A small white bandage on the back of my hand is all that remains. Good. One less thing to worry about.
“Hold tight, Khloe.” Kid reaches his hands up to stop me from getting off the bed. “You have to wait until you’re discharged.”
“I can’t,” I say with a harsh shake of my head. “I can’t meet with that doctor.”
“You have to,” he says trying to stay calm, but I can tell he wants to use some sort of authority over me.
That pisses me off more than anything. Who the hell does he think he is telling me what to do? I don’t even know this man.
“I can’t,” I say again.
His eyes widen slightly as if he’s just realized what it would mean if I talk to the doctor.
“Please don’t,” I beg him, knowing he’s reading the despair in my eyes.
“You’re not done,” he says softly, giving life to my intentions; intentions that up until now were only racing thoughts in my head.
“They’ll cage me up,” I confess. “They’ll lock me in a room and pump me full of drugs until they deem me sane.” I have no idea if that will actually happen, but I’m not above making him think that. That’s what happens in the movies, and I imagine there’s some truth in the onscreen dramatizations.
“You can’t leave if you’re just going to try again. I can’t let that happen. I can’t just walk away knowing the ideas you have swimming around in that beautiful head of yours.”
Beautiful?
Don’t listen to him, Khloe. He’s only saying things to get you to do what he wants.
Two can play this game.
“I have a history,” I lie. I’ve never been suicidal before. Depressed? Of course. What teenage girl hasn’t been? Alec’s death just tipped the scales. “If I stay, they’re going to keep me just out of precaution. I’m not going to hurt myself, but I won’t be able to convince them of that.” I look into his eyes, pleading as best I can. “Help me get out of here.”
“Where will you go? You told me yesterday you don’t have a home.” Damn. “I can’t just let you wander off. What kind of man am I, if I let you do that?”
Before I can belt out a lie about staying at a friend’s house, he continues.
“Come to my place,” he offers.
“You want me to stay at your house?” His offer makes me slide back further on the bed. I narrow my eyes at him, doing my best to figure out his intentions before responding. He’s got his leather biker cut on again today, but rather than the plain shirt he had on yesterday, he’s wearing a t-shirt that showcases Chewbacca riding a motorcycle. It’s cute and comical, and it feeds my inner nerd like nothing else.
“I live at the clubhouse. There’s quite a few of us that stay there,” he explains.
I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. I don’t know what’s worse, being alone with him at his house or being in the middle of a group of bikers. I don’t have the luxury of time to sit here and think about it.
“Perfect,” I say attempting more enthusiasm than I feel. If I get there and don’t like it, I’ll just leave. Before that can happen, I have to get out of here. “Can you grab my clothes?” I point to my things in the plastic bag by the sink.