Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
When he finally reaches the table, I feel lightheaded. I don’t look up when he says, “Can you make it out to Saint?”
His voice is smooth, too smooth, like he’s in complete control of the situation, as if this isn’t tearing me apart inside. Saint. The name feels foreign on him now, but I refuse to let him retain control. I take the book, open it, and inscribe the name Eric.
I sign my name and slap the book shut. My final fuck you. I slide it back to him, still refusing to meet his eyes.
“I don’t get a personalization?” he asks.
His words are a challenge laced with that familiar teasing undertone. He’s toying with me, just like always. I can feel the anger bubbling up again, sharp and hot, and this time I don’t try to suppress it. My eyes snap up to meet his, and for the first time, I let him see the anger, the frustration, the hurt that I’ve been carrying for so long.
How dare he stand here and pretend that this is just some casual encounter. That he’s just another reader. How dare he show up at all.
I grab the book, and my hand moves swiftly across the page, the pen pressing hard into the paper as I add: An absolute, complete and total stranger. May you have the life you deserve.
I intend for the words to be a slap in the face, but he grins. That cocky smile grates on my nerves, like nails on a chalkboard. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur that only I can hear.
“Thank you for the dedication.”
I refuse to say “You’re welcome” as he pauses for a reaction. I don’t give him one. I look past him and motion for the next person in line to make their way to the table, indicating his turn is over and he can walk away.
I’m watching him out of the corner of my eye as he heads for the exit.
Good riddance.
Right before he reaches the door, I see him turn, and his smile brightens, but not at me. He’s smiling at something else. Or someone. He lifts a hand and waves someone over.
I’m momentarily relieved to know someone else other than me has his attention.
I start to look away, but then something pulls at me, willing me to look up again. Why would he be talking to anyone here? Who would he know here?
Has he told anyone about us?
I’m craning my neck around the reader in front of me to see who it is he just waved at. I see someone making her way over to him as he walks toward her.
Nora.
She’s smiling back at him with a giddiness that makes my stomach sink. The last thing I need is for Saint to fuck with her head next.
They continue walking toward each other, and I’m doing everything I can to see why Saint is trying to speak to Nora, but two more people swoop in and block my view. I’m forced to give the people in front of me my attention, but I can’t help but feel an imminent urge to scream Nora’s name, to warn her away from him before she falls for that smile and fake charm.
I’ll be damned if he does to her what he did to me.
A fearful thought engulfs me. Was I not the first writer he’s done this to? What if it’s happened to more than just me, and he’s done it to multiple writers? It sounds like something he’d be capable of, and from the looks of it, his plan is to manipulate my best friend next. If he’s watched all my videos, that means he’s watched all Nora’s too.
Why didn’t I anticipate that he’d be capable of this?
I smile for pictures as I search for Nora, but I’ve lost sight of them. I sign more books as I search for Saint. I look for signs of them both as I finish up the last several readers, feeling guilty they didn’t have my undivided attention. But it has taken all the willpower I can muster not to run and save Nora from this monster.
When the last person in line finally leaves, the manager has two employees following behind her as she brings over leftover stock for me to sign.
“Can I take a break first?” I ask.
“Of course,” the manager says. I make a beeline for the exit. I ignore my name when it’s called by a reader. Not something I would ever do under any other circumstance, but I’m starting to worry about Nora. It’s all I can focus on, even though my actions since seeing him wave at her have probably come off as rude to a lot of people.
I don’t have time to worry about other people’s hurt feelings as I make my way outside and look for her.