Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
My moment to turn the tables.
There may not be a new sheriff in town, but there is a new asshole, and I take my role very, very seriously.
Callan
Burgundy. Rust. Raspberry. Crimson. Sangria.
Hibiscus. Mahogany. Persian. Candy apple. Vermillion.
Imperial red. Scarlet. Salmon. Barn red. Redwood.
Chili red. Desire. Maroon. Carmine.
Hmm.
I turn the carmine colored pencil around in my fingertips. It’s the closest to his lip color. Atlas Larson.
A resigned sigh escapes me.
I’m beyond beating myself up over my stupid obsession because it’s pulled me out of my funk. At least when I’m obsessing over a color, I’m not taking a hard, introspective look at myself. The inky blackness living in me is bleak and fucking terrible to always see.
I miss color.
For now, the only one that seems to call to me is red in all its lovely variations.
I’m shading one side of today’s lips drawing with carmine when someone knocks on my door. I ignore it, hoping they’ll go away, but it doesn’t work. My brother’s concerned presence fills the room.
“Hey,” he says, his voice careful and measured as though if he says it too loud or too softly, I’ll scamper away from him like an injured animal.
“Hey.” My word has bite because that’s what injured animals do. They bite.
“Just checking in on you. You’ve been…quiet.”
Antisocial. Hiding. Closed off. Quiet is just a polite way of putting it.
“Been busy,” I clip out.
The bed squeaks as Dante sits down. I can feel his penetrating stare burning into the back of my head. I’m used to it, though, and continue with my artwork.
Full lips.
Quirked just so on the right side.
A hint of straight, white teeth peeking through the slight part of them.
Berry stained.
Soft. So fucking soft.
The hand that touches my shoulder startles me. I manage to lift the pencil before I ruin my sketch. With a scathing glare over my shoulder, I snap, “What do you want, Dante?”
“I want you to talk to me,” he growls. “Without yelling. Without losing your shit. Goddammit, Callan, I feel like I’m losing you.”
I toss my pencil onto my desk and spin around in my chair. His stare roams down me, taking in my outfit—red long-sleeved shirt with designer-made holes in it over a black tee (because black is still the backbone of my existence), red jeans with impossibly more holes than my shirt, and red high-tops. Even my eyeliner is red, which matches my red fingernails.
It’s a red day.
Every day’s been a red day since meeting Atlas.
“Red,” is all Dante says.
“You’re suffocating me.” I cross my red arms over my red chest and give him a very black look. “I can’t breathe.”
Hurt shines in his eyes that match mine. “Oh.”
I wait for the guilt to claw at my throat, but it doesn’t. I’ve gone into self-preservation mode. If that means being a dick to my family and friends until I sort my shit out, so be it. I’ve asked for space but not a damn one of them will give it to me.
MJ, one of Jax’s many, many cats, meows from my pillow.
Case in point.
Even the damn animals are all up in my Kool-Aid.
My red Kool-Aid.
“What do you want?” Dante manages, his throat hoarse. “What do you need?”
I close my eyes.
White teeth biting into a plump watermelon-cherry bottom lip. So sweet. Wet. I want a taste. Just a little one.
“I need you to plan your wedding. Help Shelly make the B&B the shit. Have Jax police the damn town rather than me. And Zak…I need him to go away to college.”
Dick. Dick. You’re such a dick, Callan.
The only reason Zak stayed was because of me. Because I was too fucked in the head to leave. Afraid. He stayed because he wanted to keep an eye on me. We’re taking online college courses rather than experiencing college in dorms like we should.
Because of me.
And I want to be a dick about it.
This only adds to my misery. I can’t explain this any clearer to Dante. I just want to be left alone. Yet, the more I crave it, the more they pry. Deep down, I know this comes from a place of love, but it doesn’t make it any less maddening.
Dante lets out a heavy sigh. “Good to see you in something other than black. You’ll need to work blue into your wardrobe by the time the wedding gets here.”
I’m relieved he doesn’t continue to push the issue and leaves. I get back to trying to perfect the colors of the supple lips I can’t stop thinking about.
Hours pass. I know this because it goes from being midday to completely dark out. There’s a mountain of homework I should be doing, but I’m not interested. Exhaustion consumes me. I set my head down on my desk to rest just a bit.
“Fucking faggot!”
Whack!
Pain explodes down my spine as something makes impact. I stumble to the floor of the locker room, confused at the sudden, excruciating pulses rippling through me. A whimper crawls out of my throat as I attempt to stand.