Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
As I look around his spotless, perfectly organized room, I take a deep breath and exhale. “I thought you got the bad guy.” It’s only dawning on me now that there might always be a bad guy.
Nodding, he says, “I did,” and turns toward the door.
“Axel?” I sit up, wrapping my hands around my knees. “About last night.”
He walks back to me and his warm hand reaches for my chin. “Thank you for that. I needed to lose myself and you were there for me.”
I’m not quite sure how to take that. I know it’s stupid to think he’ll burst out in song, calling me his and saying he loves me. But I also didn’t think he would thank me. Like I’m… what, a whore? A good friend? I fucking told him everything last night. Stuff about my dad and the days before he ruined our lives. My mom, my life, ballet, all of it. I was open and then he kissed me, loved me, and I knew that this was it.
Again and again, I told him I loved him. He never said it, but his lips and body did.
“Go back to sleep.” He caresses my cheek, and suddenly I’m self-conscious.
Axel is truly beautiful. He’s rugged and the scruff, clothes, and tattoos help hide his classically handsome face. But looking at him right now as he puts on sunglasses… I want to grab him and beg him to let me go with him. Someone will to try to steal him from me. He can have anyone. Why would he want me? I’m twenty. Pretty much broke. My eyes and lips are too big, and my breasts are too small. Although lately they do look a little fuller. Maybe I need to gain some weight, get more curves.
“Be careful… and I love you,” I croak out.
He looks at me—at least I think he does. The sunglasses are so dark I can’t see his eyes. “Go back to sleep.” Then he walks out, closing the door quietly behind him. I blink at the sunny room. I should get up and shut the curtains, but who cares.
He doesn’t love me. He likes me. I didn’t have to see his eyes when I said “I love you” to feel the distance he put up. I turn to my side and stare at his guitars hanging on the wall. There are so many of all kinds and colors. For a guy who favors black, his guitars are colorful: red, silver, blue, and maybe even a purple one in the other room.
He left his band to be in this club. He’s that loyal. My eyes blur as I stare at the guitars. I’m not angry or hating him. He needed me, and I was there. Maybe it’s time I listen to him, rather than hearing what I want to hear. He’s been telling me from day one not to get attached, but I thought differently.
I thought if I loved him, then he must love me back, and that’s not the way it works.
I sit up and rub my forehead. I’m still not on my game as I go to the bathroom looking for Advil. I need to get some more birth control pills, but if I’m leaving, what’s the point?
Reaching for my pack, I look at the back, trying to read the label. Bella and I found this tiny place two years ago selling bags of them cheap. We both got a year’s supply for twenty bucks I think. That was in Hollywood. I’m in Burbank with no car. The pills have nothing but the label and the expiration date.
I stare at it. Wait, that can’t be right. Flipping on the light, I sit on the edge of the sink so I can see the expiration date better.
2013
Dread hits my empty stomach. Maybe I’m reading it wrong. Maybe the real date’s worn off over time. I need to think, maybe breathe, because I’m panicking. This can’t be right, and even if they are years old, does that matter?
It’s fine. I’m being dramatic. Pills that expire still work. It’s only a suggested date.
I rush to the bed again and grab my phone, asking Siri. Her voice comes back with “Here is what I’ve found on the web.”
I glance through a bunch of articles that say expired pills should be thrown away, but most are fine years later.
“Oh, thank God.” Clutching my phone, I flop back on the pillows and try not to think. As soon as I try to clear my mind, though, it starts racing. There’s no reason for this panic. I can’t be pregnant—I don’t even ovulate. The doctor told me that.
At sixteen. He told me that at sixteen.
“Holy fuck.” I sit up again. “No.” I shake my head. He’ll think I’m trying to trap him. My head pounds and my face is flushed. God, everything on me feels hot. I wonder if I have a fever. That could be why I’m acting like this… because there’s no way.