Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I thought about the way his blood-red shirt pulled tight across the curves of his pecs. About the infuriatingly addictive scent of him. About those thick, tattooed fingers and how he’d described thrusting them into me. I could almost feel them, parting my damp lips and sliding up inside—
A truck horn sounded, so close it vibrated through my entire body. I was in the wrong lane with a semi-truck thundering towards me, the driver bug-eyed with fear, waving for me to get out of the way. But my mind was still trying to catch up, and there wasn’t enough time. The truck’s headlights painted me white as we raced towards each other at a hundred-and-twenty miles an hour.
Fortunately, my body knew what to do even if my brain was frozen. My hands tugged the handlebars, and I instinctively leaned right. The bike drifted in behind a car, and the truck roared past an inch from my left elbow. I slowed and sat there panting, furious at myself. I never lost focus like that. What’s the matter with me?
At home, I clomped up the stairs to my second-floor apartment, then peeled off my leathers and sighed. I was starving, and I knew the refrigerator was empty. There were still packing boxes in the corner of the room from when I’d moved back to Chicago, two years ago. The problem was, I was never home.
I stumbled through to the bathroom, stripped off, and got into the shower. Long hot showers are my one indulgence. If anyone asked, I’d claim it was something to do with relaxing my muscles. But the truth is, I’d found that if you run the water hot enough and stand there for long enough with the water really hammering you...it’s almost like getting a hug.
When I got out, I wrapped myself in a towel and let myself fall full length on the bed. I was so exhausted, I instantly felt myself sinking down into black warmth.
But my mind was still spinning too fast. It wouldn’t let me come to rest in that peaceful darkness. It powered me on, down and down.
Down into my own personal hell.
6
ALISON
“We’re going to be late,” I muttered from the back seat.
“We’re not going to be late, honey.” My mom turned around and laid a gentle hand on my knee. “We left plenty of time.”
My dad, who was driving, peered through the falling snow at the nose-to-tail traffic that stretched all the way to the next intersection. He didn’t say anything, but I saw his jaw tighten: he wasn’t so sure. My stomach knotted.
“It’ll be fine, honey,” my mom told me. “Want to run through your routine again? I can play the music.”
I shook my head. I’d practiced the dance—as best I could, in our small apartment—since I woke up that morning, and I’d been running it on loop in my head since we left. I was as ready for the exam as I’d ever be. I just hoped I was ready enough.
“You got this,” my mom said softly, and patted my knee. “You’re gonna do great. And we’re proud of you no matter what.”
My mom was a ballet teacher, but back in the day, she’d been a pretty legendary dancer. She’d gone to the famous Fenbrook Academy in New York, toured with a big ballet company, had her picture on posters outside theaters… But she’d never pressured me to follow in her footsteps. When I was six, and she took me to my first ever class, she made it clear: “Try it. If you like it, do it. But don’t do it for me.”
As it turned out, I loved it. I had freakishly good balance, and transitioning from a plié to an arabesque felt natural; it felt right. And the attention to detail, thinking about every angle of my body, down to the pointing of my toes, appealed to my obsessive brain. Plus, deep down, I did want to be like Mom. I didn’t have her calmness or her people skills, but I did have a little of her grace, and even if I’d never be as good as her, I wanted to dance. So I enrolled at her school, and I practiced every day alongside the other students. Mom made sure that I didn’t get any special treatment for being her daughter. Six years on, I was a gawky twelve-year-old on her way to her first big external exam, and I was a bundle of nerves. “We’re not even moving,” I mumbled.
“You know what?” said my dad. “You’re right. This traffic sucks. Fortunately, I have a plan.”
My mom and I rolled our eyes and smiled. I have a plan was one of my dad’s catchphrases. A big, bearded guy, he had a softly rounded belly and an enormous heart. He was a middle school English teacher, and a lot of people couldn’t figure out how someone like him had landed someone like my mom. She liked to tell the story of how she’d visited his school to talk to the kids and been utterly smitten by his gentle kindness.