Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I told him I’d never get in, but lo and behold, after he talked to some people, I was accepted into the college and able to attend alongside him. Lord knows I could only afford it through financial aid and a hefty scholarship.
Weston actually offered to pay my entire tuition, once.
I shut him down on that fast.
I liked being helped, but I didn’t need to feel like I owed him so much.
“I just want to pretend he isn’t here,” Weston tells me. “I don’t know shit about why he left London, and I don’t want to know. After growing up with him, I can tell you, your best bet is just to ignore Hunter.”
“Kind of hard to ignore him when he’s in my fucking room.”
Wes mimes a puking face. “Has he been doing his night terrors thing?”
I frown. “What?”
“Growing up, he’d wake up in the middle of the night, like, fucking screaming,” Weston says. “It was awful.”
“That sounds brutal. Was he okay?”
“Hunter was never okay, but they put him on meds for a while. Eventually he stopped taking them, but then the night terrors never really came back, I guess.”
“Sounds kind of sad.”
“I guess it was.”
There’s a small rock on the pathway in front of me and I kick it with the toe of my shoe, watching it rattle down the sidewalk.
“I still just don’t get it. Why did he have such a problem with you growing up?”
When I glance over at Weston again he’s frowning, and he won’t meet my eyes.
“Rayne, just trust me. Our childhood wasn’t as pretty as you might think. I don’t really want to talk about why he had problems with me. Quit fucking asking, alright?”
His words hit me like a light blow to the chest.
Weston never talks to me like that, either.
When we get back to Onyx, Weston immediately sits down at the big, round table in the front room where Roman and a few other guys are playing poker.
Noah’s making Oliver take Polaroid pictures of him in the hallway. He’s obsessed with old-school things, like his leather-bound notebook, Polaroid cameras, and vintage coats. Noah has recruited Ollie to take Polaroids of him wearing one of his new coats. I give Noah a little salute as I walk by the two of them.
I head upstairs and swing open the door to my room.
Hunter’s in there, lying back on his bed and reading a book.
And he’s wearing one of my shirts.
I stare at him.
He stares back, over his book.
And neither of us say a word.
The way he’s lying down, the bottom part of the fabric is hiked up to reveal his lower abs. The shirt is white with red letters that say Crimson College Football along the front.
Wearing my fucking shirt.
He didn’t ask to wear it, but then again, Hunter doesn’t ask much of anything before he does it.
Fencing sculpts the body in a slightly different way than football does, but Hunter has a V-shape on his lower abs that leads down past his waistband, and all I want to do is touch him there.
And I also already want to punch him, which is par for the course these days.
A song is playing from the speaker on his desk, and he’s humming along.
“Someone to Watch Over Me.”
“You know this song’s not about stalking, right, Hunter?”
“You look angry,” he says, ignoring my comment.
“You look like you’re wearing my clothes.”
He runs a hand along the cotton shirt. “It smelled like you. Made me a little hard, so I put it on and made myself come while wearing it.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Yes. I’m kidding. About touching myself, at least. Though I’ll gladly do that for you right now, if you’d like—”
“What did you do to Weston to make him hate you? Both of you need to quit dodging my questions and just fucking talk to me for once.”
“Ooh, trouble in paradise?” Hunter says, closing his book and dropping it onto the table beside his bed. “Your best friend in the whole wide world won’t tell you personal stuff anymore?”
“He tells me plenty.”
Hunter grabs a strawberry from a bowl on his desk, taking a bite. “Here. Have some.”
He holds out the bowl of perfectly cut, fresh strawberries.
There’s a little dipping bowl nestled in there beside them, full of whipped cream.
“Did you cut these?”
“What? You think I can’t cut a strawberry? The whipped cream is made fresh, too. With vanilla bean paste.”
I take a bite of one, dipped in the whipped cream.
“That’s good.”
“I’m glad.”
It’s fucking delicious, really.
“Strawberries are my favorite,” I tell him.
“I’ve noticed you like them.”
“Stalk me much?”
Both of us puff out a laugh, and for a brief moment, I don’t completely hate him.
But I quickly remember what I actually need to talk to him about, and what I’m here for.
“Tell me about your problem with Weston.”