Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Good. Good.
I continue to press into his chest like my life depends on it while she sits and watches. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her flinch when he moans, and I wonder if she actually wants him to die, to punch him.
I look back toward him.
A tear slides down his left cheek and lands on the expensive carpet.
And then, just like the tear, in all its effort to escape his eye—he’s gone, the life removed from him as his eyes go dead.
I don’t even realize he’s gripping my wrist until it’s too late.
Until the police arrive minutes later and have to pry his fingers from me.
Until his wife screams that I killed him.
Until I realize that even though I’m innocent—I’m guilty.
I’m just a foster kid taken in by the perfect family.
The Perfects.
I sit in the middle of the floor while I’m questioned and realize I will never be a part of Ambrose’s life or love again.
All because I tried to right a wrong.
“What did you do!” Ambrose shouts, bringing me back to the present. “Mary-Belle, what did you do!”
I killed him.
I somehow killed him.
I stare down at my shaking hands, then back up at him; his mom is bent over sobbing.
How does a dream shatter so quickly?
How does a life just suddenly—disappear?
“M’am…” An officer walks up to me and slowly crouches down. He has a black mustache and is wearing a bulletproof vest. He’s almost blurry because of my tears. “We’re going to need to ask you a few questions, but because you’re a minor, we’ll need your guardian present.”
Ambrose’s mom cries harder.
I can’t swallow.
My tongue feels thick in my mouth.
And as he asks a few questions and writes them down on his little notepad, I turn and look at Ambrose, my eyes searching for the nice boy that told me I was his.
But when he locks eyes with me.
All I see is hatred.
And all I feel is pain.
Part Two
Spring Semester
Chapter Ten
Ambrose
Six Months Later
I hate being rich.
I hate school.
I even hate lacrosse now because it reminds me of that night, not that I even have a break from that since she lives in my stupid house, eats my food, and drinks my fucking water.
Lives in my fucking world.
That was a lot of fucks—but it hurts.
Burns from the inside out, like someone took a hot coal and shoved it down my throat, then told me that every time I swallowed, I would both think of her and feel that same burning, raging pain.
It’s been six months.
We have thirty days left until school’s out. She’s eighteen but has to get her diploma, but my mom’s promised me that she’ll be gone after that, on the streets. Who the hell cares?
She keeps to herself.
Eats at her own table in the cafeteria.
Her hair’s longer now, a bit darker, more natural.
She’s still beautiful, but beauty can be deceiving. After all, she did kill my dad, even if the experts say he had a heart attack… she was the one with him, the one who stressed him out, could have saved him, and now we have nothing.
Now we’re in two lawsuits.
Now things are brought to light.
All because she was there.
I can’t stand her. I can’t.
It takes everything in me to look away from her so I don’t rush up to her and do something that can’t be forgiven. Do I sometimes dream of her lips? Of the way she tastes?
Yes.
And it pisses me off even more.
Because everything was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
Until I was standing there staring at a body bag.
At my mom bawling her eyes out.
At Mary-Belle saying it was her fault, on her grass-stained knees, a day after I was inside her, thinking this was it, she was mine, I was hers, and this was forever.
I slam my locker door twice before it finally closes and grab my bag, tightening it on my shoulder, my grip so strong my fingers turn numb.
I wish the rest of me would be numb instead of all these feelings. I wish so many things. I wish I would have listened more to my dad and that I would have been more of a man than the punk kid I was.
But now, I’m forced into a world I never wanted to be a part of.
And again, it’s her fault.
The foster girl with her black trash bag and hole-filled shoes.
I turn.
She’s there, right in front of me, with the fancy bag my mom gave her, it’s a Prada backpack, black, she has whatever else my family gave her in it, like her shiny new cell phone and credit cards since my mom felt guilty she had nothing.
And she’s holding a book.
History.
Ironic, isn’t it?
Her hair’s cut to her shoulders, dirty blonde, and her eyes lock on mine. Her uniform is pristine like she’s just ironed it up. Her black thigh highs dip into red combat boots, and her lips have a shiny gloss that would entice any guy, gay or straight.