Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
I can’t.
Not now when I’m close to the finish line.
My eyes meet Carson’s, and he stares for a second, seeming mesmerized by the scene.
I already have everything going to plan, so why on earth does the idea of not having him at that finish line squeeze the fuck out of my chest?
16
GARETH
The low hum of conversation scatters around me as I stare at my phone.
I can’t help the small smile that tugs on my lips, and one of my friends—the fake ones—says to stop scrolling.
I’m not, but they can’t tell with the privacy screen.
They want to do some late afternoon group study in a local coffee shop, and I usually join them just to incapacitate them and make them feel like they can never be at my level. Without even saying anything. They still like my company, though, which isn’t a surprise—I’m the most interesting person I know.
Well, I don’t show all my interesting parts, but they’re still mesmerized by the image I project, which is a superpower in and of itself.
I reply to a few texts from Rachel—yes, the one who’s Kayden’s mom. I went to say goodbye at the airport two days ago and got her number before she left despite Kayden’s attempts to stop it. So Jina demanded to have my number, too, which I gladly gave.
We’ve been texting regularly in this group chat I made for the three of us. Mostly Rachel texts back, though. But Jina reads. Everything. Unless I talk about archery or shooting targets, then it’s Jina who’s chatty, while Rachel just sends GIFs that imply she’s bored.
I prefer Kayden’s moms over him, but I also get why he doesn’t like that I’ve been trying to milk them for information ever since that dinner a week ago.
I mean, I am, but he didn’t need to figure it out so fast.
Or try to throw in hidden meanings while his parents were there.
Anyway, he went back to campus a couple of days ago, and he’s been texting me since his moms left. Texts that I ignored but am reading through right now.
You finished playing hard to get, little monster?
If you are, I would love to pick up right where we left off.
By deflowering my pussy, I mean.
Don’t ignore me, baby. You make me so hard, it’s not even funny.
I’ve been dreaming about you begging me to fuck you in that hoarse little voice of yours and woke up with a massive erection.
Want to know how I resolved that problem?
Glad you asked. I closed my eyes and summoned the feel of how my cunt tightened around my tongue. Came straight away. Mmm. Just thinking about it makes my dick throb.
Why don’t you stop avoiding the inevitable and come to my place while I’m still asking nicely?
But then again, you’re not a fan of anything nice, are you? You get so hot and bothered at the idea of pain and being forced.
Have it your way. Let’s see how long you can run away.
The last two texts pissed me off, but the rest are acceptable.
Good to see him on the edge.
Dreaming of me, wanting me, going crazy about me, and not having me. He’s no different from all the other professors who’ve wanted to fuck me.
He should get in line.
My friends are talking about all sorts of stuff when my phone lights up with a text.
Dad
How was your day?
Me
Awesome. Got an A+ on a test.
You keep amazing me. I’m so proud of you, son.
Thanks, Dad.
I’m grinning wide. I love being his source of pride—something Killian definitely isn’t.
Something I wouldn’t be if he knew Kill and I have more in common than he thinks.
I miss hunting with you, Dad.
You shouldn’t have moved away, then. You can always come back and finish school here. Drag your brother, too. Your mom hates having her boys away, and I’m the one suffering.
How about we visit instead?
Small compromise.
Limited offer. T&Cs apply.
I see you’re pushing your luck. Kill’s influence, I presume.
Speaking of Kill, how is he doing?
Can’t ask him yourself?
You know he barely replies to me. And I don’t want to push him.
Because Dad said Kill was defective at a young age and my brother heard it.
He came to talk to me about it. I was eleven at the time.
“Gary,” he calls me by the nickname I hate most, just because he knows I hate it.
I’m in the garden practicing archery when he strolls over and flops onto the grass in front of me.
“What?” I snap, annoyed at the interruption.
“Why am I defective and you’re not?”
“Because you’re stupid,” I say, drawing my bowstring and releasing an arrow that lands just shy of the bullseye.
“I think Dad hates me.” His dead eyes fix on mine—those empty, hollow eyes he’s always had. I noticed them long before Dad did, because I saw them in myself.
“Because he called you defective?”