Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
One booted foot kicks. Entire body thrashes.
The guy on the bottom is unsuccessfully trying to untangle himself from whatever hold he’s in now, floundering like a fish out of water. Flopping, too drunk to remove himself but giving it the old college try.
Face bright red, he’s sputtering, getting pissed.
Steam practically rolls out of his nostrils as he throws his head back, trying to knock it against his opponent’s sweaty forehead.
No luck.
“Fuck you, Kissinger,” he slurs. “Let me the fuck up.”
Kissinger laughs, squeezing his arms like a python, wrapping them tighter.
The crowd shifts, girls gasping, people calling out. Cheering. Stumbling around, trying to make room as the boys tussle.
An elbow is released, nailing Kissinger in the gut. It’s not a taut stomach; he clearly hasn’t missed a kegger in months, beer belly pronounced.
A punch.
Someone gets kicked and falls over as blood gushes from his nose.
Girls scream—so dramatic—and a few guys on the perimeter of the room start shoving people forward, toward the fight. Why? I have no idea, but it creates chaos and more fists are thrown, this time from spectators, not the two dudes still on the floor.
The person closest to me stumbles backward, and I take a step back to prevent myself from getting jostled. Another and another and my back is almost pressed firmly against the wall, eyes bugging out when half the room erupts into right hooks and punches.
“Oh my god,” I say breathlessly as I exhale, the scene playing out in front of me a far cry from how the evening began.
I measure the distance to the front door, the bodies in my way. The noise. The chanting and cheering from the idiots watching instead of breaking up the brawls.
A large hand cuffs my arm and I barely have time to look down before I’m being ushered toward the exit, full cup of beer still clutched in my hand.
When that warm hand leaves my bicep and juts out, clearing the way, I have time to glance over my shoulder for a look at my rescuer.
The hairy guy whose name I haven’t figured out yet.
Roy?
Paul Bunyan without the ox. Without the axe.
Rescuing me.
But why?
I whip around, an errant elbow slamming into my body, sending me lurching forward—backward? I don’t know. I can’t stand straight and would have hit the wall if not for…
My beer cup goes soaring; his does too, splashing down the front of my dress. His chest. Cold and wet.
Soaking us both.
“Jesus H. Christ.” He sighs loudly enough for me to hear over the racket. The ruckus. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
A giant paw is at the small of my back, his mammoth body shielding mine as he shoves through the people standing in our way. Like a linebacker on the football field—or, a rugby player, I guess? Whatever position blocks people on the rugby field.
I’ve never seen it, so I have no clue.
The air outside is cold, or maybe it just feels like it because I’m drenched in alcohol, the yellow stain on my pretty dress running the entire length of the now sheer cotton.
The best part? I’m not wearing a bra.
Shit.
“I should text my friends to let them know I’m outside.”
A curt nod. “You do what you gotta do.”
Me: Outside
A few minutes slowly tick by before Mariah replies: Outside where?
Me: The party.
Mariah: I left.
What does she mean, she left? Without telling me?
Me: Where are you?
Mariah: I left like, an hour ago?
Me: Why didn’t you tell me???
Mariah: You were busy filling beer cups and stuff.
Me: No, I wasn’t. I’ve been waiting for you all night. I didn’t even want to be here.
Mariah: Whatever. The point is, I’ll be home in 20. Right now we’re at some guy Lance’s house and then I’m bringing him home.
Me: What am I supposed to do while you have some guy in our apartment?
Mariah and I share a room because we pay our own rent, live in a one-bedroom, and can’t afford anything bigger. It sucks, but at least we have our own place and don’t have to live in the traditional dorms—or one of those horrible off-campus rental houses infested with bats and outdated everything.
I grew up living like that; I’m not doing it anymore.
Mariah: It’s not a big deal, Teddy—just stay out on the couch.
Me: And listen to sex noises all night?
Mariah: I mean…don’t you have those noise-canceling headphones?
Mariah: Shit, GTG. See you in like, half hour. K bye.
There is no way I can spend the night at home if she has a guy there! No freaking way do I want to listen to them banging all night—Mariah is stupidly loud when she has sex, I don’t think I could stand her bringing someone home tonight. She thinks being loud is a huge turn-on for guys, but really it sounds fake and porny, and I can’t believe she’d bring someone home without discussing it with me first.