Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I relax. Army.
Jerome looks at him over my head, and I see people out of the corner of my eyes, taking notice of all of us.
“It’s good to see you,” Jerome tells him. “Been a long time.”
Heather Lynch and A. K. Weathers stare at me, holding their frozen lemonades. They must be back from Florida State for the holiday.
“I don’t know why”—Jerome grins—“but I’m lamenting all the times we made each other bleed in high school.”
High school? Army would’ve been like fifteen when Jerome was eighteen.
“That was good times,” Jerome goes on. “But a woman is one thing we still haven’t fought over.”
Jerome’s eyes drop to me as he steps up. Army’s arms barely move, but I feel the slight tightening of the muscles around me. Jerome’s gaze rises to his, his expression stern and void of emotion. “I once promised you I’d have everything that was yours,” he tells Army. “I will.”
I clutch Army’s wrist, feeling the bracelet under my hand.
“You won’t” comes the strong, deep voice behind me.
But it’s not Army.
My heart hammers against my chest. I look down to my fingers wrapped around the wrist with the bracelet, my pinky brushing against the long bones in the back of Macon’s hand.
Jerome turns and walks away, back to his booth, and the arms around me fall away as I twist around and look up at Macon. His head is turned, watching Jerome, his eyebrows lowered as he stares. Army, Dallas, and Trace linger out of the corner of my eye, the pulse in my neck throbbing as my back and my arms still buzz under the skin everywhere he touched.
Without looking back down at me, he leaves, and I hesitate until Army finally arrives and takes my hand. My fingers gone limp in his, I barely hear him ask, “Are you okay?”
All I can do is nod. Thoughts creep in that I don’t want to face.
It felt like him. Exactly like him.
The couch …
But I shake my head clear. It wasn’t him. A part of me just wants it to be.
When I heard his voice, my heart wound up and started going nuts like one of those windup toys that bounce up and down, up and down, up and down. I was just surprised. He doesn’t normally do things like that.
He did it for Jerome, unable to resist carrying on their high school pissing contest. Not for me.
“All right, everyone!” someone calls over a loudspeaker. “If you have a team, please make your way to the east parking lot! The Forty-First Annual Bug Jam will kick off in ten minutes!”
Army starts leading me away, and I see Trace tip back and empty his bottle of beer.
The pads of my fingers still vibrate, feeling his bracelet.
Déjà vu washes over me.
Macon is just still a mystery I’m trying to crack, so my imagination is going wild. I know it wasn’t him.
“Participants must be eighteen years or older, spectators—”
“So what did he say to you?” Army asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Macon rarely speaks to me.
But then I realize Army is asking about Jerome. “Oh, um …” I look up and shake my head clear. “Just some nonsense about how real chili has beans.”
It serves no purpose to repeat Jerome’s bullshit. Today is about fun.
“Dumb motherfucker,” he mumbles under his breath. “If it’s got beans, it’s not chili.”
I shake my head. “It’s just a stew.”
The announcer goes on as we approach the crowd, pushing our way through to the light green VW Beetle that I only know was made in 1969 because I watched Trace and his buddies restoring it one night last summer.
“The record is thirteen people,” the woman calls over the speaker. “Held by the Hurricane Ladies Book Club.”
“Named for all the hurricanes they drink while they pretend to talk about books they don’t read!” Baylor Kane, a senior at Marymount and the son of one of the moms in the Hurricane Ladies Book Club, teases nice and loud.
Everyone laughs, and I look around at who we have on our team. Aracely, Army, Trace, and Dallas. Liv and Clay walk up to join us. Someone must be watching Dex for a few minutes while we do this.
I arch up on my tiptoes, scanning the people behind me. Did Macon go home?
“And that’s not fair, either!” another guy shouts. “Women are smaller.”
“You’re pretty small,” another woman fires back.
“Ohhhhh” come taunts from the crowd, followed by some laughter and a chide: “There are children here!”
Army pulls me along. “Let’s do this.”
The teams start approaching their cars, wind kicking up as I pull my hair back into a ponytail and pull on my hoodie again. I look back at Dallas. “You joining in?”
His mouth twists to the side, but I can see the amusement in his eyes. He whips off his jacket as all of them pile their leathers next to the rear tire.