Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
He tips the bottle back, throat moving slow. When his eyes find mine again, they're flat as concrete. “Dead fucking serious.”
Walls close in. Everything too much. The music too loud, the alcohol too strong. Someone bumps into my shoulder, hard enough to make me stumble. I barely notice, too focused on the man in front of me who's looking at me like I'm nothing.
“Why are you acting like this?” I demand, stepping closer, needing to break through whatever wall he's put up.
Nothing. Void. “Like what?”
“Like I'm nobody. Like the last however many months didn't happen. Like—” My voice breaks, betraying me at the worst possible moment. I dig my fingernails into my palms, using the sharp pain to steady myself. “Like you don't give a shit.”
“Maybe I don't.” He delivers the line with such casual cruelty, not even bothering to put force behind it.
My lungs give out.
“You don't mean that.” I search his face for any sign that he's lying, that this is just some fucked-up game.
“Don't I?” He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You made your choice, Melissa. You left. You took Olive and you left. What the fuck did you expect?”
I search his eyes when he pulls back. “I expected you to understand—”
“Understand what? That you're too good for this life? That you want all the benefits of being with me without any of the reality?”
“That's not fair,” I whisper, my arms wrapping around my body.
“Isn't it?” He straightens. “You want the fairy tale. The happy ending. The white picket fence and the normal life. But that's not who I am. And you know it.”
My eyes burn. “I never asked you to be someone else.”
“Didn't you?” His jaw tightens. “You left because you couldn't handle what I am. What I do. The choices I make. So don't stand here and act like I'm the asshole for moving on.”
“Moving on?” The words leave before I can shove them back down my throat. “Is that what you're calling it?”
“What else would I call it?” He glares. “You don't know how it feels to not have my attention, Melissa. To not have me be all over you. All you know is the me that chases, that fucking obsesses, that fucking loves. You don't know what I look like when I'm not those things to you.”
There's that Dextor Morgan gore I was talking about.
My throat closes, and I hate him for being right. Hate myself more for the way my body still responds to his proximity, even when he's tearing me apart with the truth. Pain builds behind my ribs, sharp and immediate, and I have to swallow twice before I can breathe again.
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the noise.
“Hella?”
I turn to find my sister standing a foot away, looking uncertain yet beautiful in a simple black dress. Her hair's down. Her makeup's done. She looks nothing like the nun who showed up at my apartment.
“Hey.” Hella's voice softens. Softens. “You need something?”
“Checking if—” She glances at me, guilt written across her face, but her smile bright. “Hey!”
I can't breathe.
My eyes narrow. “What's going on?”
“Nothing.” Millie backs up a little, her cheeks flashing red. Enough to catch even in this shady lighting. “I should go back to—”
“Millie's been taking real good care of me,” Hella interrupts her retreat. His eyes lock on mine, and something violent twists in my gut. “Real. Good. Care.”
The world stops.
My blood turns to ice in my veins, and the drink in my hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Millie's face goes pale. Her mouth opens and closes. “Hella, that's not—”
“Not what?” I demand, my voice cracking on the second word. Rage builds deep in my chest, looking for a place to unleash. “Not true? Because it sure as hell sounds like—”
“It's complicated,” Millie whispers, as if that explains everything.
“Complicated.” I laugh, but it's broken. Lost. Telling tales of betrayal. “That's what we're calling it?”
Hella drains his beer, eyes glued on me the entire time. The bottle hits the counter with a deliberate thunk before he turns his back.
And walks away.
Walks away.
Like he didn't just detonate a bomb in the middle of my fucking life. Leaving me standing there with my sister—my sister—who apparently has been “taking care” of him.
“Lissa, please.” Millie reaches for my arm, her fingers trembling. “It's not what you think.”
I jerk back so hard I almost stumble. “Don't touch me.”
“He asked me to help—”
“I don't want to hear it.”
Everything tastes like vomit in my mouth.
I turn and push through the crowd, shoulders slamming into strangers who grunt and curse. Bodies press against me from every direction. A bass too loud, lights too bright, everything too fucking much.
I find the bathroom and lock myself inside, staring back at myself in the mirror. Who is this girl? Mother? Yes. One that’s probably failing epically. Ex of a biker? Maybe. Not sure.