Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
I risk another glance at Kylie, and the bond—the thing I refuse to name—thrums under my skin like a live wire. Every instinct in me screams to get closer, to put myself between her and the rest of the world, to drag her somewhere safe from assholes like Holland and never let go.
I clench my fists.
You know this is exactly how it starts. You’ve already seen it time and time again.
Calloway watches me carefully. “You know fighting it doesn’t make it go away.”
“No,” I say. “But it buys time.”
“And what exactly will time give you?” Kane asks. I don’t answer because I don’t know what time buys me.
Time to figure out what the endgame is?
Time to decide how deep this goes?
Time to make sure she doesn’t end up on a list she never agreed to be on?
I don’t fucking know. But that’s pretty on par for me these days, because I don’t know anything anymore. Besides the fact that I want Kylie Moon—and badly.
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” I tell them instead.
“Okay, bro. Let’s just keep buying time, for the sake of, you know, time,” Kane teases.
“Hell yeah. Let’s get more…time.” Cal laughs and offers me a high five. I don’t accept, but he finishes the gesture himself, slapping one hand against the other.
I groan. “How about you two fuck right off.”
Both of my brothers have the nerve to laugh, but I ignore them.
Across the rink, Kylie finishes a lap and slows her pace as she pushes her warm brown hair off her face. For a split second, her eyes flick toward the benches.
They land on me.
Something I don’t know how to describe passes between us. It’s recognition without understanding, curiosity edged with unease. The uncontrollable pull, it seems, isn’t exclusive to me.
Taking pity on what must feel impossibly confusing for her, I look away first.
Kane claps me on the shoulder. “We’re heading to the Suburban. You coming?”
“In a minute.”
They don’t argue. They know better when I’m in a mood like this.
When they’re gone, I pull out my phone and open the note I’ve been adding to all week. It’s not dreams or visions like I’ve experienced before. It’s not as formal as that, but rather, fragments of something my instincts won’t let go of.
Unattached Female
Stalked
Flat Tire
Private Event
Opulent Penthouse
I add one more line.
Intervene if it’s Kylie Moon.
Frustrated, I drop my phone inside my bag and take one last look at her. Then I zip my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the exit.
Whether I want this bond or not, whether I fight it or not, one thing is certain: I don’t want anyone touching Kylie Moon.
Not even me.
Kylie
I don’t know if you know this, but Mondays during tax season have a smell. It’s a combination of burned coffee, panic-induced pit sweat, and printer ink.
By ten a.m., my boss, Martin Feldman, has already made fifteen laps around the office, his bald head shining beneath the fluorescent lights while he wears a rut in the blue Berber carpet, bitching to everyone within earshot and freaking out in nerd speak. His tie is loosened, his sleeves are rolled up, and because of the wear and tear on his loafers, he’s shrunk half an inch.
“If one more client emails me asking what a 1099 is,” he announces, stopping by my desk, “I’m going to fake my own death.”
I don’t look up from my screen. “Pseudocide would complicate payroll, Martin, and at this stage of the game, I don’t need any more complications.”
“Good point.” He peers at my monitor. “How are you doing over here, Moon?”
“Thriving,” I say. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of having the kind of stress that causes hair loss, brittle nails, and wrinkles as a part of my career.”
“Stress causes hair loss?”
I suck my lips into my mouth and point my eyes directly at his barren head. “Nooo.”
He snorts. “Well, good news, if we survive the fifteenth, drinks are on me.”
“And if we don’t survive?” I ask, pessimistically amused.
“Burn this place to the ground with me inside it. Oh, and make sure you tell my wife I loved her.” He pats my shoulder and keeps moving, already muttering about needing to file extensions for the Bergwitz, Holsten, and Smith families, and leaving no opening for me to explain that if we don’t survive, my corpse won’t be able to burn anything down. Or, I suppose, tell anyone that he loves them. I don’t have anyone to tell besides Gammy, but boy oh boy, is that a can of worms for another time.
I have too much shit to do. Working here in the spring is the kind of busy where all you can do is brace yourself for the wild ride to hell and hope you have enough flame-retardant clothes to come out the other side. You can quite literally work at a breakneck speed and still feel behind.