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)
But I still have questions that only our biological mother can answer. That doesn't mean I've forgiven her. It doesn't mean I ever will. But she owes us answers for everything she put us through.
Does she really regret it? Did it haunt her? Has she truly changed like she claims? Like I said, I've got questions. Bella doesn't understand why I need answers…but I do. I told her to butt out.
And then Bellamy got killed, and she wouldn't leave it alone. I got scared, and we fought about that, too. Now, she's in Texas, and I feel completely freaking alone. She has to come back so we can fix it. We can't spend the rest of our lives mad at each other. We can't spend the rest of our lives at odds over Marion. She ruined our life once. I refuse to let that happen a second time.
Halfway to the back of the line, a hand clamps down on my arm, spinning me around. I yelp, automatically launching into one of the self-defense moves my dad taught me. I spin to the side, bringing my elbow back at the same time.
"Jesus Christ, little bird," Brantley grunts in my ear as my elbow connects with his hard stomach. "Easy. It's just me."
"Brantley!" I gasp, my knees sagging with relief. I peer over my shoulder into his gorgeous—pained—green eyes, guilt surging through me. "Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was you."
"I can see that." His gaze skirts over my face, his full lips pulled down into a frown. "What are you doing here?"
"Here?" I stare at him blankly, and then remember where we are. Standing outside Memphis Hughes bar. Right. Crap. I probably should have come up with a cover story because I've got nothing believable. "Oh, um, I come here all the time."
Amusement drifts through his expression. "Oh, really?"
"Yep. All the time."
"Right. And you just happened to be eating lunch at my favorite diner yesterday."
"Exactly. Why are you here?" I ask, trying to sound like I'm not freaking stalking him. Except…I'm the world's worst liar. "I saw your sobriety chip. This is a bar."
He stares at me levelly, completely silent.
Crap.
"Worried I'm off the wagon, Isla?"
"What? No, of course not." I chew on my bottom lip. "It's okay if you are, you know. It happens," I whisper. "No one is perfect. I heard that sobriety isn't a linear journey anyway. It's more like a wave for most people, with highs and lows. The important thing is that you get back on the wagon, Brantley. You did it once. I know you can do it again."
"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, staring at me with this…look…in his eyes. It's heat and steam and somehow soft and fierce at the same time.
My heart races, my mouth going bone-dry.
Lord, he is beautiful. Short dark hair, paired with his piercing green eyes, beard, and strong jaw are just the tip of the iceberg with him. The tattoos licking up his collarbones are all too attractive. And don't even get me started on the way his t-shirt hugs the muscles in his broad shoulders and chest or his jeans cling to his powerful thighs.
"I'm not off the wagon, little bird," he says softly. "I had a meeting with Memphis."
"Oh," I whisper.
"Now, how about you cut the shit and tell me why you're here?" He takes a step toward me, pinning me in place with those eyes. "Because we both know you've never stepped foot inside that bar." He crooks a finger beneath my chin, and it might be my imagination, but I think he shivers. "In fact, I don't think you've ever been inside a bar at all, have you?"
"I just turned twenty-one," I whisper.
He groans like I just told him a dirty secret, his body pressing up against mine. "Doesn't matter how old you are," he murmurs, his gaze locked on my lips. "You're still a good girl at heart, baby. And good girls like you don't drink themselves stupid at titty bars."
"T-titty bar?"
A ghost of a smile slashes at his lips. "You didn't know?"
I shake my head, struck silent. Clearly, I should have looked into this place a little more before I decided to follow him here.
"Why are you really here, Isla?"
I chew on my bottom lip, not willing to tell him that I'm stalking him. If I'm too much of a good girl for a titty bar, I'm probably too much of a good girl for jail, too. Yes, I'm definitely too much of a good girl for that. It…irritates me that he has me pegged so well, though. That he knows me—or thinks he does—after meeting me just days ago.
Maybe I'm not who he thinks I am. Maybe I'm more like Bella than everyone thinks I am.
"Tell me," he growls.
"You won't answer my questions. Why should I answer yours?"