Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
But the shadow is too large, too wide, too… Jameson. It could be Asher or Atlas. Impossible to tell without seeing ink. Half his face disappears behind a ski mask, already locked and loaded while my jacket sags open at my waist, clipped to my overalls. I look a dysfunctional mess. Valid.
He rips the mask to his neck, closing the gap between us. “I know why I'm out at five a.m.” His head cocks as he slides free from the shadows. “What's yours?”
Asher.
Forcing a laugh, I clear my throat. “Well, I'm a famous snowboarder, you see, so naturally I sneak out to shred at night and stash secret girlfriends away from my friends…”
His lip twitches. “Ah, she's got jokes.” Each step forward sucks the oxygen from my lungs, his proximity crushing the air between us. This here, this is why I need to re-evaluate my current friendship with him, because yes, okay, we have almost kissed a couple times, but this—all of this—somehow feels different. “And I didn't tell you because you never fucking asked.”
I’m going to ignore that jab.
My chin lifts after finally wrestling the glove over my knuckles. “You coming down? I mean, you do still remember the passcode from last year, right?”
He turns over his shoulder before resting back on me.
Please come with me. Even to just spend a moment convincing me that I didn’t imagine who you were before you went weird.
“Yeah, I do, but…”
“Oh good!” Her voice drifts in from behind Asher, and I lean to the side to see Camille zipping up her jacket.
My heart drops.
She pulls at her tacky fur coat that better be fake. “I thought you left me behind!” She’s all playful until her attention lands on me. “Oh! Hello…”
Well. This isn't awkward. Looks like I have to allow more people into that previously impenetrable space I keep talking about.
“You up at this time to?” I ask, brow arched.
Her head tilts to the side as she assesses me from head to toe. “I’m wherever Ash is.”
A chuckle catches my throat. This would only happen to me. Fuck you Asher.
More footsteps, and then Punk's hair glistens as Atlas tucks her under his arm.
She turns to see me, and her smile widens. “Hey! What are you doing up?”
I hitch my thumb toward the elevator, that’s still not fucking open. “Just heading out. You?”
Her cheeks flush. “I’m going shredding!” Amusing considering Punk hates snowboarding, or anything outdoorsy.
“Do you have…?” Punk studies my face pleadingly, and I'm aware of the eyes on me. She wants a spare board. I guess.
My smile softens, and I jerk my head into the small space. “Of course.” They all pile in. I should have asked how much they weigh to see if we needed to do two trips, but before I can open my mouth, Asher's arm brushes mine, and my breath catches.
Doors shut us inside.
“Wow. Suddenly it's small in here…” Camille laughs. I don't know if it's the undertone that always lingers, or her slow, deliberate assessment whenever she's near, but I don't like her.
Or maybe it's that I don't like anyone.
Or maybe it's because you're jealous and Asher is fucking yours.
In the cramped space, I try to keep my focus straight ahead while Punk and Atlas dissolve into each other. I’m out of luck though, since the walls are mirrors, so everyone is everywhere.
What's the fucking term when you're the unwanted extra wheel? Oh yeah. Just Ivanya.
Asher's stare sears through me, his proximity scorching my skin. My stomach twists and curdles, and the second the doors part, I slide between the two tangled bodies in front of me, desperate for air, even though the quality down here is shit.
Are we ever going to address the massive elephant in this room, or is he going to pretend he hasn't spent an entire year with this girl without telling me?
“Holy shit!” Atlas's voice cuts through behind me, but I block him out, zeroing in on what needs doing. The bottom level sprawls out. Flat concrete basement with boards mounted across the walls. A giant U-shaped sofa squats in the center, angled toward a TV clinging to a floating wall that carves the bedroom space behind its concrete face.
“Welcome to the main bedroom!” Punk sweeps her arms wide. A billiards table hunches behind the sofa, a dark corner bar lurking in the shadows. Above each deck, silver plates gleam with engraved names. Near the back wall, a trophy cabinet towers, crammed with portraits. Wrinkled faces frozen in time.
All ancient.
All dead.
All strangers I'd never met.
“Ash, wanna grab Punk a board?” I say, dismissing them as I head toward the floating wall where a Cali King presses against one edge, the TV hanging above it.
I duck into the walk-in closet, a spiral staircase coiling upward through three levels, every rack stuffed with my shit. On the opposite side, the open bathroom sprawls out. A claw-foot tub perched beside a shower that drops from ceiling to floor. Textured concrete coats every surface, rough and cold.