Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry, I forgot—”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?” She looked dubious.
I squeezed my hands on her waist, pressing her down against me, reminding her of what she’d been missing for the last three weeks. “I’m much better now.” And she was one hundred percent the reason. “Maybe don’t mention it to Tariq Crawford, though.”
I said it as a joke, but we both went stiff.
Other than Lisa’s awesome plot of Kayla fucking me to death, I’d never really thought about Kayla sabotaging me. She could. I’d left myself wide open to that, which had been pretty stupid on my part. But I trusted her. Right?
“I’m not friends with Tariq,” she said. “I mean, one of the cheerleaders is dating him, but I don’t talk to him, and even if I did, you know I’d never—”
“I know,” I answered quickly.
“Good.” Her warm hands cupped my neck, and she leaned in, setting her forehead against mine. “They been babying you at practice?”
Hardly. “No. I don’t know if you’re aware, but we’ve got a big game against Ohio State this weekend.” She smelled good, like a beach, and I angled my head so I could set my lips on the pulse point of her neck.
“Really?” She shivered under my kiss. “Gosh, I hope you don’t lose and break that fabulous winning streak you’re on.”
“What about OSU? They’re eleven and oh, too.” I pushed my hands under her sweatshirt and ran them over her smooth, flat stomach.
“They sound good. Tell me more about them.”
“Ranked number two in the BCS poll. And their cheerleaders? So fucking hot.”
She sighed into me, melting under my palms as I slid them over her bra. Her voice was strained with need. “Strong argument. I think Michigan’s going to lose. If Chuck were here, he’d say you need to think positive.”
“You mean, if he wasn’t busy polishing his sousaphone.”
Kayla drew back and made a face. “Gross. Chuck’s asexual as far as I’m concerned.”
“I’m not asexual.”
She stared at my grin and shot back a devious one of her own, just before she tugged her sweatshirt off and tossed it to the floor. “Hmm, I’m not convinced. You better show me.”
-32-
KAYLA
I had a perma-smile on my face as I drove, grinning stupidly to the empty cornfields that whizzed past my windows. I wasn’t smiling because I was leaving Michigan. I was still riding the high from being with Jay.
We’d gotten to actually talk to each other for more than ten minutes. He didn’t show it, but I sensed the pressure on him. The game this weekend had huge implications for his career and I was glad I’d agreed to drive up. We had both needed to blow off some steam.
My body was sore in good places. My head buzzed from the orgasm he’d pulled out of me during our morning quickie. It’d been legit quick, too. He kissed me goodbye afterward and had to rush to get downstairs in time for breakfast with the team.
During the drive, I tried to run through the talking points in my presentation for my argumentation class, although Jay kept stealing my thoughts. I wasn’t really worried about the presentation anyway. I was confident I’d nail it. Most of my classes were enjoyable this semester, but it had a heavy emphasis on writing, so I was looking forward to presenting.
Check battery.
The orange light glowed abruptly on my dash, and the two words sent my heart plummeting to my toes. I hadn’t left my battery back on the U-M campus, I thought sarcastically. It was definitely still attached. I turned down the radio and stared at the light, begging it to go away. Maybe it was just a blip.
The warning light didn’t go off. What was I supposed to do? I was the stereotypical girl, who knew nothing about cars except where the gas and windshield washer fluid went. How serious was this? Was the light like a maintenance reminder? Or was my battery getting ready to explode?
It was six miles to the next exit off the freeway. I could find a gas station and ask someone, or else consult Google. I made it four miles before the lights on the dash went dim and the radio stopped working.
“Shit. Shit!” The speedometer needle fell. I stabbed my finger on the hazard button and eased my Rio onto the shoulder, where it shuddered over the rumble strip, one set of tires and then the other. The car continued to decelerate as I was completely on the gritty shoulder, and then . . . that was it.
My car was dead.
Almost as dead as the road I was on. I’d passed a few semi-trucks, but not many cars. My hazards didn’t even work now. I snatched up my phone and looked at the clock on the lock screen. Oh, no. I was so fucked.
I popped the hood, got out of the car, and lifted the metal with a heavy creak, hoping somehow, someway, it’d be obvious to me what was wrong. Like there’d be a cable that had come unplugged from the battery and a diagram explaining where it was supposed to go.