Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“Take me to Barrington,” I said.
17
Zepp
I stared at Monroe’s name on my phone, at the message typed out on the screen: you ok?
Hendrix came through the front door, followed by Wolf, and I deleted the text. They dropped their backpacks onto the floor and went straight to the beanbags in front of the TV, switching on the PlayStation. “How long did you get suspended for?” Hendrix asked, tossing a controller to Wolf.
“Three days.”
Wolf narrowed his eyes. “That’s it? Dude, Brown’s going soft.”
Even Brown hated those Barrington kids and their parents. Had I not thrown in the offer for him to suck my dick, I would bet all I would have ended up with nothing more than a week’s worth of detention.
The guys had barely gotten into their game when an engine revved outside, setting off the alarm on a neighbor’s car. Hendrix looked over his shoulder, ears practically perking up. “Is that a V8?”
Another roar rattled the aluminum windows, and I headed across the room, twisting the plastic blinds open. Harford’s electric-blue, 1970 Stingray Corvette idled in my drive, door open, and Monroe’s long, fishnet-covered legs swinging out from behind the wheel. “God-fucking-damn.”
I stepped onto the porch just as she perched on the hood like some Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, crossing one leg over the other.
“Brought you something,” she said, trailing a fingernail over the checkered-flag emblem, and as hot as she looked on the hood of that car, that wasn’t some piece of shit, rusted out heap. That was a fifty-grand classic car, belonging to the guy I had beat to within an inch of his life. With the passenger window busted out and, if I had to guess, she had hotwired it. That was a connection I did not need.
“What the hell, Roe? Why do you have Harford’s car?” I hurried down the porch steps, stopping beside the shiny car. “In my motherfucking driveway!”
The smile on her face crumpled, a bitter expression replacing it as she pushed to her feet. “Because it means he doesn’t have it.”
Cop sirens wailed in the background. That noise was a constant on this side of Dayton, but I had a good feeling, this time, they were after her.
“Get in the damn car,” I said, jogging to the open driver’s side door.
“Hell no.” She shoved me, then sank behind the wheel, glaring at me. “I stole it, I drive.”
Biting back an aggravated groan, I went to the passenger side and climbed in. The thing practically sat on the ground. A twinge of jealousy rose inside me when I noticed the completely restored original interior. Spoiled dick.
The motor growled, rumbling through the leather seats. Monroe shoved it in gear, and the car flew onto the street, tires screaming. Monroe literally drove it like she stole it, flying over potholes and careening sideways around the corners. When the call of police sirens rose over the engine, she gunned it harder, winding through the slums until we hit the entrance ramp to the freeway and the speedometer pressed one-fifty.
I swiped a hand over my jaw, staring at the interstate in front of us. I got it. She had lost it, but dammit, stealing his car and bringing it to my house? She could have just set it on fire...
Some shitty rock song blared through the speakers when Monroe cranked up the radio. A laugh fell from her lips. “I love this car.”
The fact that she was acting like this was some kind of joyride snapped the thin thread of patience I had been clinging to. I cut off the music. “What the hell were you thinking, Monroe?”
Her arms went rigid against the steering wheel. “He deserves it.”
Max deserved a lot worse. Worse than what I had already done to him, but the thing was, this all would be a blip on the radar. His cuts and bruises and broken bones would heal, and insurance would give his parents money for the stolen car. As much as we wanted to believe we’d stuck it to Harford, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t dust off his preppy, designer shoes. “And what the hell are you going to do with it?” I asked.
“You can sell it.”
“Are you insane? I can’t sell this!”
“It’s got to be worth at least thirty grand. Yes, you can!”
I didn’t take Monroe for stupid, but this was stupid. “This isn’t some old drunk’s piece of scrap metal! It’s a 1970 Stingray Corvette. In mint condition.” I glanced at the busted window. “Almost. Flags would go up everywhere if I tried to sell this thing, and then my ass would end up in jail.”
Her knuckles washed white from how hard she held onto the steering wheel. There it was. I had sucked the moment of fun out of it—taken a dump on her pinch of bliss.
“Well,” she said, jaw clenched. “I can’t return it!”