Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Fuck knew, I had enough of my own secrets. My closest friends had no idea I’d been fucking my roommate for the past two months. They thought we’d called a truce and didn’t know we slept together nearly every night and that we decided whose bed based on which sheets were cleanest.
And they had no idea I’d been sober for even longer.
I had to tell them.
According to my therapist, I was doing the right things, choosing new ways to fill my time, new ways to deal with stress and anger. She’d strongly encouraged meetings, so I’d gone to a couple two towns away…as a lurker. I’d literally stood against the wall, hugging the shadows like a phantom and listening to people I didn’t know bare their souls. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t brave enough.
“It’s called surrender, Gus. You’ll know when you’re ready,” she’d said.
Yeah, well…not today.
Ty shoved a shot glass in my hand. “To Gus! From captain to coach…”
“And teacher,” Regan added.
“All the girls…and boys are gonna draw hearts around your name in the yearbook and beg to be in Mr. Langley’s class.” Brady batted his eyelashes.
“Fuck off,” I grumbled, my fingers shaking as I tried to figure out where to dump my shot and if they’d notice.
The smell of tequila was so strong, and it evoked insta memories—not all of them bad. This stuff was liquid courage. I’d done shots before I’d asked a popular cheerleader out in high school. I couldn’t tell you her name or what she’d looked like, but I remembered this scent mingled with her perfume and sounds of sex in the back seat of my car.
Fast forward, many parties and bad decisions later, it was me stumbling to my dorm at three in the morning after celebrating a win or birthday or whatever the fuck. I’d had to stop in an alley to get sick. My balance had been off and I’d collapsed, hit my head, and sat there bleeding, vomit on my shoes, so stoned, I couldn’t find my phone. I’d passed out. The sound of garbage trucks eventually woke me and…everything smelled like tequila.
Christ, I was sweating now.
Tell them, asshole. Just fucking tell them.
“Bottoms up, man.”
I drew the amber liquid to my lips, nearly gagging, and at the last possible second, slid the glass facedown on my palm and let the tequila trickle into the potted plant behind me. I’d had to be quick, obviously. This crew didn’t sip gut rut. They slammed it and poured another immediately.
I swiped my forearm across my mouth, mimicking a shiver of disgust at the taste when the truth was that I was disgusted with myself. It wasn’t like me to hide…anything. I felt like a fraud, but I wasn’t ready for heavy discussions, and I definitely didn’t want to ruin the celebratory vibe.
Brady poured another round. “To the Bears.”
Oh, hell no. I couldn’t fake it twice.
I pulled my cell out and stepped aside. “I have to get this. I’ll catch you guys later.”
“What? Get your ass back here, Langley. One more shot,” Regan called.
“One more shot, one more shot, one more shot,” Brady chanted, Regan joining in on the third refrain.
I flipped them off on my way to the door, then speed-walked to my truck.
“Langley! Hey, wait up.”
I muttered a curse under my breath as Ty jogged after me, grateful the beautiful weather gave me an excuse to shield my eyes with sunglasses. Ty was eerily perceptive at times, and the last thing I needed was the third degree.
“Slow your roll, man,” I drawled. “Where’s the fire?”
Yeah, if this coaching thing didn’t pan out, I might consider moving to Hollywood. I was a fucking great actor.
Or maybe not. Ty had the determined aura of someone ready to call bullshit.
“Are you okay?” The furrowed brow, copious tats, and shoulders as wide as a barge added an intimidating element, but it was the look of genuine concern in his eyes that stopped me.
“I’m fine.”
“You dumped your drink in my plant.”
“I was watering it,” I bluffed. “You’re welcome, by the way. The poor thing is fucking dead.”
He raked a hand through this hair in frustration or discomfort. “Something’s up.”
“Nothing is up.”
“Brady thinks you met someone. Did you? Or is he off base? And before you tell me I’m overreacting, I’ll remind you that you’re the one who started the tequila-shot celebration tradition. Tossing perfectly good alcohol out isn’t like you, and—”
“Relax. It was Jose Cuervo,” I huffed, hoping to defuse his angst. Ty didn’t crack a smile. I puffed out my cheeks and slowly released air like a flat tire on its last gasp. “Dude…I’m fine. I swear. I didn’t drink the alcohol ’cause I have things to do, and I don’t want to smell like cheap booze all day. I have to clean up my image if I’m gonna be a serious adult, right?”