Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
I glance over at him, my mouth open to ask what he means, but the expression on his face silences the question. It speaks for itself. He isn't talking about his mom. He's talking about his dad.
"Everyone thinks they know my father," he says quietly. "They have no fucking clue what kind of bastard he really was."
Oh, my god.
"Brantley." I swallow hard. "Did he…?"
He meets my gaze, not speaking. But he doesn't have to say a word. The truth is written on his face in stark lines. His dad hurt him. Badly. And judging by the haunted look in his eyes…he's still fighting the pain. He's been fighting it for a long time.
Defiance wells up from my soul, screaming in silent protest.
I reach across the console without a word, slipping my hand into his.
He glances down at our joined hands and then over at me and swallows hard, his fingers closing around mine. He doesn't say a single word. He just clings to my fingers like I'm a lifeline.
I cling just as tightly, my heart aching for him. Questions bubble on my tongue, but I swallow them back, refusing to ask. He doesn't owe me those answers, and I won't ask for them. But I want to help, even if it's just a little bit.
"I'm sorry he hurt you," I whisper when he pulls up in front of my apartment ten minutes later. "No matter what that little voice of doubt says, you deserved better."
"Jesus," he rasps.
"Thanks for the ride, Brantley."
I'm halfway up the sidewalk before I feel him touch my elbow. He spins me to face him, breathing hard.
"What–?"
His lips crash down on mine, his hand fisting in my hair. I gasp against his lips as he pulls me up against his body, holding me dangerously close for one perfect moment as his lips move against mine.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"For what?"
"For being you, little bird." He brushes his lips against mine again, sighing softly. "For being you."
My heart flutters as he pulls back, his gaze tangling with mine. And I realize I don't want him to leave yet. Even if he doesn't agree to help me…I think I want to know this man. I want to help him.
"Will you come inside?" I blurt.
He stares at me for a long, silent moment, a war raging in his eyes. "I shouldn't."
"Okay," I whisper, glancing down at the ground. Rejection stings. I don't like it much.
His thumb slides along my bottom lip. "I said I shouldn't, Isla. Not that I'm not going to."
My gaze bounces back to his, my eyes wide.
He groans softly, shaking his head. "Let's go before I remember why I shouldn't."
Chapter Three
Brantley
Stepping inside Isla's tiny off-campus apartment is like taking a peek inside her mind. Family photos line the walls. Keepsakes—the things that matter the most to her—are carefully displayed on shelves between plants and pretty flowers. Stacks of books march across bookcases in orderly rows, arranged by height and color. Bright rugs line the floor, with equally as colorful throw pillows spilling life and light into the cozy space.
"It's not much," she mumbles, fidgeting at my side. "I stay with my parents most nights. But when I have class, it's just easier to stay close to campus."
I cut my eyes in her direction, shaking my head. "My place is a barren wasteland compared to this, little bird. It's perfect."
That fucking smile. Jesus. It's psychotic how much I want to taste it right now.
Until tonight—until her—I'd never even kissed anyone. Even blackout drunk, the thought of anyone touching me made my skin crawl. Guess that shit happens when you spend half your life like a whipped dog, unsure if that raised hand means affection or pain. But the anxiety isn't there with her. The feeling of impending doom and the need to escape when someone gets too close don't exist.
Touching her feels natural.
I didn't even have to think about it outside of Memphis's bar. I saw her standing out there, dressed like sex, looking for trouble, and all I could think was, 'Oh, hell no. She's not fucking going in there.' There wasn't a chance in hell I was letting her stroll into a bar full of bikers who'd eat a sweet little thing like her alive.
Reaching out to stop her was instinctive, automatic.
When she reacted how she did and elbowed me, I expected a jolt of panic. That's usually what happens. Someone puts their hands on me, and I flip the fuck out. But the panic never came. Instead, all I could think about was making sure she didn't feel the same fear. And the fact that my balls ached because she knew enough to protect herself. That's sexy as hell to me. She should know how to protect herself. She's too damn beautiful to be defenseless in this world.