Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
He was sitting back on the red leather booth, the glow of the pendant light above the table illuminating his cheekbones.
“How about I ask you some invasive fucking questions?” I said. “See how you like it?”
“Try your best, Peachel. Ask me.”
“What was your week like?”
“I spent a lot of time in classes, in the library, or researching for the article I’m about to begin for the TNU Tempests.”
“Tell me something less obvious.”
He pulled his lower lip into his mouth, giving it a little bite.
I knew the alcohol was still coursing through my blood because I desperately wanted to lean over the table and take that lower lip between my teeth.
Bite it for myself.
Taste that black coffee on his tongue, make him hard, and stay in control by getting him to want me.
I can get under your skin, too, Gray Gilman.
“On Thursday, I didn’t have class until one in the afternoon,” Gray said. “So I woke up and helped my grandmother mow the lawn.”
“Ooh, so nice and kind,” I said in a teasing tone. “Helping your grandma.”
“I’m staying at her house until the end of senior year,” Gray continued. “My mom hasn’t been in my life for years, and my dad died in a motorcycle accident when I was five months old. But Grandma Bet is a fucking badass.”
“Cool grandma, huh?”
“She’s not a bake-you-cookies kind of old woman. She swears at me, she’s opinionated, she’s standoffish. I fucking love her.”
“Your dad’s mom or your mom’s mom?”
“Dad’s side. I don’t talk to anyone else in my family,” Gray said, sitting up in the booth. “Look at you, trying to be a reporter.”
“Unlike you, I’m actually curious.”
“Andrew, the whole reason I’m a reporter in the first place is because I’m curious. And because I’m good at it. Finish your food. Let’s go.”
I dropped a few twenties on the table a minute later, and Gray’s eyes landed on the bills as we stood up.
“You going to write about that in the article?” I asked him as we sauntered out past the throngs of high schoolers in every booth.
“I’m sure most of the article will be about how much syrup you put on your food, yes. Who puts syrup on eggs?”
“Lot of people do,” I said, pushing open the front door of the diner.
The night air was perfectly cool on my skin.
Thank fuck.
I was finally starting to feel normal tipsy again instead of stupid-wasted.
“Can’t say it’ll be the headline of the article, Peach.”
“I meant the fact that I’m a good tipper,” I said. “Would it kill you to make someone look good in one of your stories for once?”
“Come on,” Gray said, sauntering back over toward the Hard Spot parking lot.
“I’m not going back to the bar tonight.”
“Yeah. We’re not going there.”
I watched his figure as he crossed the street.
Since when were academic types so fucking strong like him? I was surrounded by brawn and muscle every day around my teammates, but Gray’s physique was…
Different.
Harder.
But also softer, in a good way, too.
He was a couple of inches shorter than me. I followed after him, finally getting a chance to look him over while he couldn’t see me.
Black jeans, with an ass so fucking perfect I forced myself not to stare at it too long. He had a small chain coming from one of his pockets, because of course he did. His tattoo wrapped around his entire forearm, and I looked at it from the back view, the thick, black lines standing out under the glow of the street lights.
When he turned to glance back at me my heart did a little flip.
Caught.
Red-handed.
Staring.
“Get in,” Gray said as we approached an old, sporty-looking black car.
The interior was bare-bones. The car must have been at least twenty years old, but it practically looked like a racecar on the inside.
“I miss this,” I said. “Cars don’t need all the screens that they have these days.”
Gray’s expression was hard as he started the ignition.
Real keys, too. Not the push-button start I’d been used to for years.
“Buckle in.”
“What kind of car is this?” I asked him.
“Evo.”
“Hm?”
He turned my way. “Mitsubishi Evo. I’ve modified it a fair bit over the years, though. They don’t come stock like this. Buckle in, Andrew.”
I clipped the seatbelt on.
Gray slowly made his way out of the lot and onto Laurel Ave, and at first it felt like a normal ride.
But the moment he got onto the highway, he gunned it, and after a brief second the car sped forward like a rocket, accelerating so fast my spine lurched backward onto the chair behind me.
“Fuck’s sake, Gray, are you trying to get pulled over—”
The shadows of the streetlights moved across his face as he shifted gears. “I don’t speed. There’s nothing illegal about acceleration.”
“My friend doesn’t even go this fast in his Ferrari.”
He was silent for a moment. “That’s because Ferraris are for people who just want to flaunt their wealth. This car’s meant to be used, and I didn’t save up for it to go slow.”