Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Instead of snapping at her or talking shit, I offer her my hand.
She eyes it warily, slowly looking back up at me, but I wait, leaving it outstretched, and eventually she slides hers in mine.
I tug her to her feet, frowning at the curious way she’s watching me, and spin the first second I get. I peel my shorts and top off, tossing them into the bin beside the bench, and she follows my lead, silently doing the same. “Fifty laps and then we’re done for the day.”
“Only fifty today?” she asks. “I can do a hundred. I made it to ninety yesterday. Give me a chance and I’ll show you.”
I look over at her as I pull my hair free, tossing the hair tie onto the seat. “I know you can, but it’s already past noon.”
“Right. You can’t waste your entire day on me.” She nods, eyes dropping from mine as she faces the pool and dives in. I watch her reach the end before following, finishing my fifty and heading for the showers before she’s even done.
Once I’m changed, my hair woven in a middle part, bun tight and tidy, sitting low on my head, I sit and wait, adding some basic makeup from the supply set up here in the gym locker room.
Katana appears thirty minutes later, jerking to a stop when she sees me sitting in the plush chair in the corner. “I thought you’d be back upstairs by now,” she mutters, stepping up to the mirror, and begins messing with her short dark hair. She runs the brush through it raggedly, tearing at the tangles as she brushes straight back over her scalp as if no one ever taught her the proper way to comb her hair, and I cringe, pushing to my feet.
She startles when I approach, gesturing toward the brush. Her lips press together tightly and slowly, she lowers into the chair.
I throw the brush in the trash, taking the comb I used on my own hair, and start at the tips, slowly working my way up the length until I can run from root to tip with no tangles stopping the path.
“That feels nice,” she whispers, closing her eyes. “Did your mom used to do this for you?”
I still, my hand freezing halfway through her length before I catch myself, though I manage to keep a blank expression. I don’t talk about my mom. Ever.
Hell, I didn’t even tell Enzo what I learned that night we first went out, Katana as the unwanted accessory.
Yet for some reason, my mouth starts moving before I realize it. “Yes.” Every morning and every night until she died.
Her eyes pop up, seeking mine in the mirror, but I don’t look, instead tossing the comb and filling my hands with a good amount of gel. I weave it into the front pieces of her hair, then tightly twist the right side until the length won’t twist any more, pinning it in place.
“When did she die?”
My chest expands. Of course she knows. She’s completely unaware of most of the shit in the world she was meant for, but she knows all about my family. I imagine the moment she learned my name, she dug as deep as she could manage. Keep your enemies close and all that.
Not that we’re enemies per se, but we very well could have been. Maybe even started out as much.
I think about that a moment, nodding internally.
Yeah, we definitely were. Wait…when did it turn into “were”?
I repeat the action on the left side of her hair, her eyes on me the entire time, waiting to see if I’ll answer and asking a second question when I don’t.
“She was murdered, wasn’t she?”
My eyes snap up at that, narrowing, but all I see is a sleek sadness on her face. My brow furrows, and she drops her gaze, staring off to the side.
“Enzo said my mom was, too,” she says, not necessarily sad, but thoughtful.
A knot forms in my throat, but I swallow past it, pushing to my feet and grabbing some mousse, gently sliding my fingers through her short length and giving it a little shake, before stepping in front of her.
I grab some brown liner and turn back, and she closes her eyes when she realizes what I’m trying to do, allowing me to add a steep swoop to the corner of her eyes. After that I give her a little blush, mascara, and a color of lipstick that only makes her neutral shade pop.
She really is effortlessly pretty.
When I step away, she looks in the mirror with a smile, her eyes meeting mine a moment later through the glass.
“Thanks.” She glances at herself again, her eyes moving over her own features, and a small scowl builds. “I’ll get out of your face now.”