Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Let’s make this fast.
I drop Walrus, and he leaps towards the kitchen. While I head to the old staircase, I spot Jane on the Victorian loveseat. Snuggled in a fuzzy pink blanket, she watches 10 Things I Hate About You alone.
This wouldn’t be unusual, but she invited Nate over tonight for a movie and sex. I saw the guy earlier in passing. He looks like a young, lightweight Scott Eastwood. Tall, preppy-styled brown hair, wide-jawed. A black blazer and gray button-down hugged his skinny build.
“Where’s Nate?” I fix my earpiece, the cord cold on my bare shoulder and back, running to the radio on my waistband.
Jane scratches Licorice behind the ear. “He’s using the bathroom.”
I nod, not about to linger long. I ascend the creaking stairs.
Jane has a little bit more freedom with a friends-with-benefits than she would with a one-night stand. See, Nate has been vetted multiple times and been in this townhouse even more. It’d be extreme overkill to keep putting a bodyguard “chaperone” on him.
And Thatcher is back at security’s townhouse, safe from overhearing his client having sex. Not that I really care about what Thatcher hears and doesn’t hear. We’re not all meant to be “besties” and that’s more than okay with me.
I don’t want a thousand best friends, and fuck, I don’t even want one best friend. I want my tireless, headstrong boyfriend and some reliable people I can hang with on occasion.
That’s all I need.
Halfway up the narrow staircase, I reach the second-floor landing. And I pause. My gut says, look. I turn my head, the bathroom door in view.
No light streams beneath the crack.
Instinct overrides alarm, and I move quietly but urgently. I open the unlocked door and flick on the lights. No one is in this fucking bathroom.
There are only two other doors. Left goes to Jane’s room. Right goes to Luna’s room. I tune out motives, the what ifs and all the shit that’d cause me to stumble or falter. I concentrate on one task.
Find Nate.
I open the left door. Flick on the lights.
A quick scan of the room.
Empty.
I shut the door, turn to the right one. Luna’s room. My jaw hardens as I grab the brass knob.
Don’t be in here, you motherfucker.
The knob jams.
It’s locked.
I listen for a half a second, no noise audible. I knock once, twice, and then feet patter. I lower my fist.
Don’t be in here.
The door swings open, and Luna peeks out, a heart drawn on her cheek. Green marker stains her hands. “Hi, Farrow.”
“Anyone with you?” I ask.
Luna glances behind her. “No…should there be?”
I have to look. “Can I see?”
“Yeah…”
I push the door wider. Glow-in-the-dark stars and planets are glued to the ceiling, lava lamps casting colors and odd shapes on her black chalkboard walls. Purple beads hang across her four-poster bed like curtains, but I can see through them.
And no one else is here.
Okay.
If he’s not on the second-floor, then I know where Nate is now. And it’s not good. My nose flares and eyes burn.
“What’s this about?” Luna wonders. “Are you trying to find Moffy? I thought he’s with you.”
“He is. Stay in your room for me. Lock your door again.” I wait for her to move. She hesitates, and my brows arch. “Luna.” I check the staircase. No movement.
My body tells me not to overact. Don’t jump the gun. Don’t panic. Breathe and face this shit head-on.
“Should I call my brother?” Luna asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m going to text him.” I already take out my phone and type a quick text. Luna nods and then shuts the door. I hear the lock click.
Stay in my room. Lock the door. I send the message to Maximoff.
Pocketing my phone, I continue up the stairs to the third floor. Process of deduction: there’s only one other place the stairs lead to.
Maximoff’s attic bedroom.
Don’t panic.
I inhale, not fixating on the reasons why Nate would want to be in Maximoff’s bedroom. If I concentrate on that, I’ll lose it.
My phone buzzes, but I don’t bother checking his reply. I can’t have a five-minute text conversation or a phone call with Maximoff. Not right now.
I climb the flight of stairs, quietly. Careful not to cause the old wood to squeak. Each step is a razor blade held to my throat. Because I know exactly what I’m climbing towards.
A nightmare.
A kind of hatred that I’ve seen for months in sick photo after sick photo.
Last step, and I’ve reached the top. I face a door and listen for a short moment.
Hearing…I shake my head. I can barely distinguish the noise.
But someone is in there. I’m not painting a vivid picture of what’s inside.
What I know: I need to end this tonight.
Turning the knob, I kick the door open.
And my heated gaze drills on a familiar face.
This fucker…
I grind my teeth.
Nate stands wide-eyed and eerily still next to the bed. At least two inches taller than me, could be more, his head almost touches the rafters and strung bulbs.