Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
We were king and queen in a different era, in a different way.
I want that shit back.
Part of me knows that she does, too.
Pres connects her fingers at the nape of my neck while I slide mine around her waist pulling her closer. Her body instantly tenses, which causes my stomach to clench because I’m not sure if it’s from fear or repulsion.
And the possibility that it’s both?
Well, that has my body breaking out in a cold sweat.
Chest aching in unmatched ways.
Toes twitching for stable ground to stand on.
Pres effortlessly moves her body to the easy rhythm yet allows her eyes to anxiously fumble around the entire room until they’re left with no choice but to finally land on mine. “Why are you doing this shit, Collins?”
“Dancing? ‘Cause it’s prom, Pres. It’s in the brochure.”
Amusement doesn’t make an appearance.
“It’s basically a requirement to even enter the room.”
This time I can see the flicker of a smile.
“Have you forgotten everything 10 Things I Hate About You taught us?”
She lightly giggles and the zombie known as hope is resurrected.
“Good to see I can still make you laugh.”
The statement is well received given how quickly she scowls. “Why’d you ask me to dance, Collins?”
“Can we knock the Collins shit off?” My grip grows a little tighter. Needier. “I hate it.”
“Since when?” She nonchalantly asks. “It’s what everyone calls you. It’s what everyone has always called you.”
“Everyone except you.”
I can see specks of the want for me flicker in her brown gaze and swiftly go after them.
“Pres, I need to apologize about-”
“Don't.” She shakes her head. “Just let it go.”
“I can’t,” I whisper in agony. “Not just because I did something I never fucking thought I would, and for that, I again, am so fucking sorry, Pres.”
“Presley.”
Having my rights revoked the privilege is not only understandable.
It’s fucking expected.
“I was so wrong for hurting you the way I did, Presley. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically.”
She begins to pull back, yet I flex my fingers.
Tug her to me.
Prevent her from fleeing before I’m finished.
“I really didn’t know what I was doing. You have to believe me about that shit. I was so fucked up that I didn’t even know what had really happened until I started to call for help. And I did call for fucking help, Presley. And I didn’t fucking leave your side until they were coming in the front door.”
“How kind of you to nearly kill me and then wait for paramedics to make sure you didn’t.”
There’s no use in pretending the stab doesn’t hurt. “I didn’t go over to your place intending to harm you. Fuck, I-I-I don’t even remember how I got to your house that night or really much shit before that…that…moment-”
“Which makes it so much fucking worse, Collins.”
Confusion darts my eyebrows down.
“You were so fucked up that you probably don’t even remember the things you promised me earlier that night.”
“I made you promises?”
“You did,” she whimpers, tears doing their best to stay out of her voice. “You promised me that we could go to dinner and talk about where we were going to move to for the summer and what we were gonna do about college ‘cause I had been getting acceptance letters and most importantly, you promised me that you’d end shit with Bambi. That you were done giving a fuck about what everyone else thought. You promised me that you’d come back to me that night. You sent text after text declaring all the love in the world for me. That the minute you got to me, that was it. We’d be whole again.”
Having no recollection of that sinks my shoulders to my overly shiny shoes.
“All those words, all those promises…,” her head slowly shakes, “Lies. Pure fucking lies.”
“They weren’t!”
“They were,” she viciously bites hard enough to draw blood. “You have many goddamn addictions, Collins. And you know for a while…we shared the same one.”
My jaw instantly drops.
Pres?
Drugs?
Maybe…weed?
But that seems like a stretch.
“We were both addicted to pretending to be people we weren’t. And we thought we were doing it for the right reasons-”
“We were!”
“Maybe at first?” Pres counters, uncertainty loud and clear. “Between our families and friends, it seemed like the right thing to do. Pretend to hate each other until we could find a place to love each other without rules, without judgments, without consequences, but at some point, Collins, we stopped pretending to be those people and started to actually become them. And honestly? I hate the girl I was addicted to playing almost as much as I hate the asshole that you’re still addicted to being.”
Being burned by the truth causes my grip to slightly slip. “I hate the asshole I am too.”
To my surprise, her fingertips tug the hair right above the back of my neck. It’s a method she used to use to soothe the pain away. Calm me after a nightmare. Relax me post a family spat. Chill me out pre an exam. Even now, the shit works.