Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
August leans close, kissing my collarbone before working his way down my shoulder—until my stomach rumbles.
He stops. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, a little.” I’m starving.
A second later he digs in a dresser drawer. “Here, wear this.”
He hands me a t-shirt, which I tug over my head. And he changes into a pair of silk pajama bottoms.
The hallway is pitch black, nothing but dimmed sconces on the walls every few feet. When we get to the top of the stairs, he takes my hand, and my heart does the tiniest flip.
A minute later we’re in the kitchen.
“Have a seat.” He points me to a bar stool as he rummages through the fridge.
A turkey sandwich, some fresh pineapple, and a few Red Vines later, my stomach no longer rumbles. As we head back to his room, I taste remnants of licorice in my teeth, savoring the remaining sweetness. From this day forward, I’ll probably always associate red licorice with August.
“August.”
We’re halfway to the second level when a male voice cuts through the quiet darkness.
I suck in a breath, clutching my chest.
Standing at the base of the stairs is a man who resembles a slightly older, cleaner-cut, darker-haired, darker-eyed version of August. It definitely isn’t Soren. I’ve seen his image on enough billboards and watched him perform on enough late night talk shows to have it memorized.
“I thought you were in Philly for work?” August says.
“Who the hell is this?” The man ignores August’s comment, drinking me in from head to toe in a way that makes me squirm. Squinting, he studies my face, like he’s trying to place me. “You realize the minute you’re gone, there’ll be ten more in your place. Just like you.”
“The fuck is wrong with you?” August takes a step toward him, wedging between the two of us.
“Just in case she was feeling special for a second,” the man says to him. “Didn’t want to get her hopes up. You have a habit of doing that to people. Making promises you can’t keep.”
“You really need to shut the fuck up right now.” August grinds his words between his teeth and takes another step closer to the man, but I hook my hand into his elbow and keep him from doing something crazy.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
The two of them stay in a stare off for what feels like forever, before August turns and leads me upstairs, his hand clenching mine though I don’t think he realizes it.
“He’s not fucking worth it,” he says under his breath. I don’t know if he’s speaking to me—or to himself.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Gannon.”
“And does he always talk to you that way?” We’re seated on his bed now.
“Our relationship has always been … special.” His shoulders rise and fall, muscles flexing with each breath. “But trust me, I give it to him twice as good.”
Sitting on the bed behind him, I rub his shoulders. “He seems like a prick.”
August chuffs. “Just forget what he said, all right? He was just making shit up to make you feel bad and to get to me. That’s what he does. The bastard gets off on that shit.”
“I mean … it’s not like we’re dating. You’re allowed to be with other people. I don’t have any kind of claim to you …”
He exhales. “Yeah.”
We sit in profuse silence for a moment, an almost painful sort of quiet. For all I know he’s conjuring up all sorts of uncomfortable memories in that mysterious head of his. Recollections he keeps bottled inside because he’s got nowhere else to put them. I press my cheek against his back to let him know he’s not alone.
The powerful strum of his heartbeat plays in my ear as I inhale his familiar scent.
I’m going to miss this.
“Have you ever pictured me with someone else?” he asks.
I sit up. He turns, angling his body toward mine.
“What do you mean?”
His mouth presses flat. “If you imagine me with another woman, how does it make you feel?”
Sinking back, I envision him with some pretty brunette with aspirations of nailing him down for life, and it doesn’t feel pleasant. But I can’t tell him that.
What would be the point? To torture ourselves?
We can’t be together.
“When I think of you with another man,” he says, “it feels like a sucker punch. That’s the only way I can describe it. It knocks the wind out of me. I literally can’t breathe.”
I digest his words for a second. This is happening so fast—and his confession is beyond unexpected. I’d entertained these thoughts on my own countless times, only to pass them off as reckless daydreams and nothing more.
“What are you saying?”
He drags in a long breath, rakes his messy hair back and exhales. “I don’t know. I don’t know what any of this shit means. I just … I just know it’s different. Being with you. And I can’t deny it. I don’t know what to do with it, so I’m putting it out there.”