Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I cock my head to the side and plant a hand on my hip, gesturing to my shirt. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m already wet.”
And I swear to you, I didn’t mean for it to sound dirty; it just came out that way.
I swipe away the beer dripping down my left cheek.
Caleb removes his hand from his belt loop and runs it down the front of his flaming-red face. “Do you want to at least try and clean off a little in the bathroom?”
CHAPTER 10
CALEB
As I put my hand on Abby’s lower back to steer her toward the bathroom, the group behind us hoots and hollers like a bunch of jackasses, and I shoot a heated look over my shoulder. “Go give her the old Poke Check, Showtime!” shouts Cubby at the same time Stephan yells, “Bag it and tag it!”
“And here I thought my friends were bad.” Abby chuckles over her shoulder—or at least that’s what I think she’s saying. It’s pretty damn loud in here and hard to hear with the music pumping.
I guide her to the first-floor bathroom, which is off the kitchen near the pantry, but when we get there, there’s a line about seven girls deep.
Abby takes a spot at the end of the line, and I lean against the wall next to her as she faces straight ahead, fiddling with her hands. The bathroom door eventually opens, and four girls file out while another two stumble in.
Jesus Christ, it’s like Grand Central Station during Rush Hour.
Realizing this could take all night, I rationalize that it’s not my job to stand here keeping Abby company while she waits to clean off her wet shirt, even if I did spit beer in her face.
I can leave her here and return to our friends.
On one hand, girls are used to waiting in lines at parties, right? Aren’t the lines for the ladies’ bathrooms always twice as long as those for the guys’ bathrooms?
On the other hand…
A blonde in a purple camisole—or whatever you call those silky-looking pajama tank top things—stops in front of me, red lips parting as she devours me with her eyes. “You’re Caleb Lockhart, aren’t you?” Her smile is one I’ve seen before: smug, assured, self-confident, and meant to have me eating out of the palm of her hand.
Coldly, I gaze silently back at the blonde, my eyes flicking briefly to Abby, who’s taken a sudden interest in counting flowers on the wallpaper.
“Cat got your tongue?” the girl flirts, her bare arm reaching for the sleeve of my shirt and giving it a playful tug with her long fingertips.
“Don’t,” I mutter, the unfriendly tone reaching my eyes.
The blonde assesses me, not ready to give up the chase, and titters at me. “God. You’re even better looking up close.” She leans in, and just as she’s about to press her perky tits against the front of my shirt, one word crosses my lips.
“Abby.”
“Um, no.” The blonde gives her head a shake with a frown. “My name is Francesca.”
“Not you. Her.” After debating, I make a decision. Side-stepping the pretty co-ed, I give Abby a curt nod and demand, “Follow me.”
We move through the crush; classmates, teammates, and strangers greeting us as we make our way back through the living room, some of them sizing up Abby with open interest. Bodies are everywhere with little room to easily navigate, but it’s my damn house and I throw a few elbows as we weave our way through.
Just as I round the living room and charge into the foyer, I feel fingers graze the palm hanging at my hip and pause briefly to gape down as Abby slides her delicate hand into it mine.
“Is this okay?” she yells. “I just don’t want to lose you in the crowd.”
Pleased, I give her delicate hand a squeeze. Latching on to the finial post at the bottom of the stairs, I give Abby a tug, pulling her tight against my side and propelling myself up the staircase.
“Move!” I thunder, paving a path for us to ease our way up, step by step, to the second story.
I stop in front of my bedroom, which is the master and the last room on the right, punch in the combination for my lock, and pull her through the door, flipping on the light switch before locking the door behind us. I point to the door in the far corner of the suite. “Bathroom’s over there.”
Real suave, I know.
Abby nods, her keen eyes taking in her surroundings: the dark forest-green walls that my parents painstakingly painted, with their pennants and hockey posters; the large oak desk and computer; the science-fiction book collection methodically arranged by height on a built in bookshelf.
She pauses before the bathroom door, biting her lip. “I’ll only be a minute.” Abby taps the doorframe twice, then walks through, shutting the door.