Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
One of them, who I’m guessing is the leader of the group, steps forward a little, closer to me. “Are you going on this alone?”
My cheeks heat. Because I am going on the ride alone. Not because I’m a total loser, but because we just moved to Coney Island from Baltimore. My aunt Elle is a police officer, and she got offered a promotion, so that brought us here. I’d lived in Baltimore my whole life, so moving has taken a little getting used to. Okay, a lot getting used to. But Aunt Elle has done so much for me, raising me after my mom died when I was three, so when she told me about the promotion, I told her to go for it.
She’s at work now, which is why I thought I’d come out and explore my new home instead of sitting at the house, checking Facebook for what my friends back home were doing.
So, of course, I came to the famous fair. And I’m a sucker for the Ferris wheel. Hence, why I’m in line to ride.
“Yes. I’m new to town. I don’t know anyone here,” I tell her by way of explanation, partly hoping she’ll invite me to join them on the ride.
She doesn’t.
“Well, you do realize that those cars can take up to four people, and you’re going to use one just on you. That’s pretty selfish of you.”
Wow. Okay.
“I’m not trying to be selfish. I just want to ride the Ferris wheel. Do you want…should I ride with you guys to fill the car up?”
She laughs. Then, she looks me up and down. “I don’t think so. We don’t hang out with losers. Right, girls?” She nudges her sidekicks, and they laugh along with her.
My face stings with humiliation. I should say, Screw you then. You’ll have to wait longer to go on the Ferris wheel because I’m going on it. Or even flip them off.
But I do none of those things.
Instead, I walk out of the line to the sound of laughter and chants of, “Loser,” my eyes stinging with tears.
What the hell is wrong with me? I should have given those bitches a piece of my mind.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I continue to walk. I suck in a breath, keeping my emotions from leaking out of my eyes.
I’m a Reed, and we don’t take crap from anyone.
Or that’s what Aunt Elle always says.
Honestly, I’ve never really had to put up with anything like that before. I had great friends back in Baltimore. And, now, I have no one.
I just know those girls will be at the high school I’m starting on Monday, too.
I stop outside a store across from an arcade, unsure of what to do with myself. The sounds of laughter, music, and the pinging machines dance in the air, making me feel even lonelier.
I’m gonna go home.
Well, back to the new house I now have to call home.
At least there’s a tub of Cherry Garcia waiting for me in the freezer.
As I turn to leave, male laughter catches my attention, and I look to see a few guys standing around one of those boxing arcade games—you know, the kind where you hit the punching bag to record a high score.
One of them is having a turn. Something about him catches my attention even though his back is turned to me.
He’s a big guy. Tall. Broad shoulders showcased in a blue denim jacket. My eyes go down. White T-shirt showing out of the bottom of his jacket. Black jeans on his legs. Nice ass. Fits his jeans well.
Fits his jeans well? Thank God I don’t say this kind of crap out loud.
My eyes go back up. I can’t see his hair, as he’s wearing a ball cap.
I bet he’s good-looking.
There’s just something in the way he moves his body as he prepares to hit the punching bag that screams confident. Like he knows he’s good-looking.
God, listen to me. I haven’t even seen the guy’s face, and I’m labeling him as hot.
He hits the bag hard. I could hear the slam of his fist against the leather of the bag, even all the way over here. The bag pounds up into the machine, and the board lights up with numbers running high.
Top score.
Wow.
His friends are laughing and punching him in the arm, like guys do, but he seems to just shrug them off.
Then, without warning, he turns his head and looks straight at me, catching me staring.
Shit.
I look away, turning to the store window. I use my long hair to curtain my face, trying to pretend I wasn’t staring when he clearly knows I was.
I’m such a loser.
My face is reaching inferno levels of hotness at the embarrassment of getting caught staring and also because I was right. Holy Christ on a hottie cracker, that guy is gorgeous. Beautiful. The quick glimpse I saw of his face was more than enough to confirm to me that he is super high on the sex god meter. And definitely older than me. A lot older, I’d say. Around twenty-ish at a guess.