Total pages in book: 195
Estimated words: 185573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 928(@200wpm)___ 742(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 185573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 928(@200wpm)___ 742(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Her hair brushes over my jeans as she kneels between my legs and unzips the fly. My dick is flaccid, but when I imagine Bianca looking up at me, I can relax and let go. Reality slips away and takes me back to a memory I sometimes doubt was ever real.
I don’t know when I finish. I only know that as soon as I do, I’m out like a fucking light. The clubhouse, Destiny, and everything else disappear as the familiar darkness steals me away. It isn’t a peaceful sleep. It never is. Images of war are punctuated by movie reels from my own personal hell. The cops rattling the doorframe. Handcuffs. The gaping mouths of observers as I’m hauled away. A voice behind me delivering the news of Adam’s death in a list of charges. Cameras flashing. Strangers screaming my name, asking where she is. Where’s Bianca?
A thousand moments in time collide, and then I see her, pale and lifeless. Eyes so vacant it cuts me open and bleeds red into the edges of my vision. She’s dead. Gone. And it doesn’t matter what I do. I can’t rewind it. I can’t go back and save her. They tell me I did this. They tell me I killed them both. And I wake up every morning wondering if it’s true.
In my mind, I can still hear her broken voice whispering the painful question I live with every day.
“Why did you do this, Madden? I fucking loved you.”
Chapter 2
Madden
—PAST—
The steady drone of Anthony’s voice is enough to put me to sleep. For the past ten minutes, he’s choked out the same sob story about how his mother didn’t love him enough and it’s her fault he turned out to be a complete fucking psychopath. I’ve heard at least fifty variations of this bullshit from him since I’ve been locked up in this shithole. He has a morbid obsession with her, and I’ve watched it play out for months.
It’s tempting to tell him to shut the fuck up, but the last time I did that, they took away my TV privileges for a week. Motherfuckers.
I keep my mouth shut, trying not to gouge my eyes out as he goes on. Eventually, the group counselor cuts him off and moves on to the next person. This one’s a girl named Wendy, an attention-hungry middle child who loves to make herself the hero in every story. And so, the circle of hell continues.
I tune them out, switching my focus to the lyrics inside my head. I’ve been working on these lines for days, but something about the bridge feels wrong. It’s not emotive enough, and I’m irritated that I haven’t been able to get it right.
“Madden?” The counselor’s voice yanks me back to the real world. “Would you like to share today?”
I open my eyes and meet hers with a dead stare. It only takes a second for her to start squirming in her seat like a mouse in front of a hungry cat. The staff are afraid of me, and it isn’t difficult to figure out why. When they look at me, they see a six-foot-two asshole who towers over most of them. And if they believe what my file says, I’m full of latent rage that might combust at any moment.
I’m a prickly motherfucker, and I never make an effort at their so-called therapy because they don’t really give a shit if I do. Their job titles are counselors, but what that really translates to is babysitters. Everyone at the ranch is here because our parents couldn’t be bothered to deal with us, so they sent us away to rot.
“I guess that’s a no, then,” she says primly, darting her gaze to the kleptomaniac beside me. “Clinton, what about you?”
Clinton proceeds with his turn, and I close my eyes again, but I can feel someone watching me. I know without looking that it’s her. The new girl. The one with the silky black hair and big brown eyes who walked in here like she got lost on her way to the mall. There’s no way she’s as deranged as the rest of us. I could see that the first time I laid eyes on her. She’s too put together. Too quiet. And far too obedient when it comes to the rules. But she has a different disease of the mind. She’s a pretender. A fake. A fucking phony. I should know. I can smell them from a mile away.
This girl has been here a week, and she hasn’t figured out how things work around here yet. Because she’s always fucking staring. Sure enough, when I open my eyes again, I catch her in the act. She blinks at me as my gaze narrows on hers. It’s my signal to back the fuck off and find someone else to look at. That tactic works on every other girl, but not this one. Apparently, she lacks the innate survival skills that should alert her that I’m bad fucking news. Either that, or she’s fucking with me, which seems… improbable.