Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
“Whoa … that fits then.” Kara tapped the edge of the can against her bottom lip and curled her straight black hair behind her ear.
“Fits?”
“Yeah. Missy’s up in her room, but we were talking about him before you got home. She heard from Cory that Slade’s a little shady. Maybe dealing. No one knows for sure. Apparently, he’s been seen on the regular coming home at all hours of the night. I guess he started his last year a few years back. A week into it, someone thought they saw him at a bar with his face totally fucked-up and his arm in a sling. He never returned to school … until now. I bet he owed someone some major cash but didn’t have it.”
I nodded. “Probably. I’m surprised he came back to finish school.”
“I’m sure he’s just using it all as a front to deal whatever shit he’s dealing. I’d stay away.”
I continued to nod slowly while staring at the marble tile floor between us. It seemed a little odd that someone clearly interested in the law would have a side job breaking said law.
“I’m serious, Livy. Don’t put yourself in danger just to piss off your dad.”
My gaze snapped up to Kara.
“Don’t give me that look, Liv. Your favorite pastime is making your dad mad.” She wasn’t wrong.
“Well, his favorite pastime is worrying about me way too much. Let’s get going.” My head jerked in the direction of the stairs.
“Way ahead of you.” Kara lifted her tee, revealing her bikini. “Think Aiden will be there tonight?”
I smirked. “God … I hope so. My favorite OG. He’s fucking brilliant.”
“And old, as are all original gangsters.” Kara hopped down from the counter. “It’s creepy the way you flirt with him.”
“Dude, I don’t flirt with him. He’s older than my dad. It’s called admiration and respect.” I left her with a disapproving scowl then changed into my bikini, grabbed my wet suit, and waited by the door for the rest of the crew.
We surfed until the night extinguished our glorious sunshine. My annoyingly responsible friend fished me from the water to get home for classes the next day. As much as we wanted to slap on a few glow sticks and hang with the twilight crowd, Missy convinced Kara and me to pack it up.
“It’s like you’re totally trippin’, watching them out there.” I gazed at the water and my diehard friends glowing as they rode the night serpent.
“Like UFOs.” Kara laughed.
With our surfboards secured to the top of Missy’s SUV, we cruised home with the windows down and Maren Morris’s “To Hell & Back” blaring from the speakers. I wasn’t a country music girl until I met Kara. Our freshman year, she converted me in a matter of months. Missy took a little longer to convince, but we all eventually got there. Except Aubrey … she didn’t surf—and she despised country music.
Chapter Three
I arrived at class the next morning with two minutes to spare and my mint green tea with a generous amount of honey from my favorite tea and crepe cafe. No time for crepes, but I had a tiny food orgasm while I waited in line at the pickup counter. Oh the torture … as plates of decadent French goodness strode past me on trays for customers who didn’t have an eight o’clock class with a professor who had no issues shaming late arrivals.
Blackberries.
Whipped cream.
Chocolate drizzle.
It wasn’t fair.
Instead, I grabbed a prepackaged energy ball at the checkout counter. Almond butter, spirulina, coconut, and dates didn’t have the same effect as ooey-gooey crepes.
Slade Wylder and his mystery service dog snagged my attention from their spot in the middle section about halfway down the stairs of the theater-style lecture hall. Two seats behind him were available. Any woman with a sense of self-preservation would’ve picked the farthest possible seat from him. Too bad I wasn’t just any woman.
I claimed a seat behind him and one to the left so maybe he’d see me out of the corner of his eye. When he didn’t offer a single glance, I sipped my tea and cleared my throat.
Nothing.
He’s deaf, stupid.
After my invisible face-palm, I crossed my legs and not-so-accidentally kicked the back of his chair. He slowly glanced back at me. I shifted my tea to my left hand and made a fist at my chest with my right hand, circling it clockwise—sign language for “sorry.”
His deep-seated frown didn’t budge. It only intensified, indenting the space between his thick, serious eyebrows.
Pinching my drink between my knees, I used both hands to sign, “I said sorry. No need to break my leg off.” Unavoidable pride bent my mouth into a grin while I waited for him to acknowledge my ability to communicate with him. Tiffany, my best friend from kindergarten until eighth grade, was deaf. She taught me sign language. Well, she taught me some sign language. My dad taught me the most. He also taught me to speak some German and Russian. Before he decided to be a computer engineer, he had considered working with the government as an interpreter.